Many apologies for the delay - unavoidable technical difficulties. Actually I suppose they were avoidable if I'd just ignored those alluring words on the update disc my server sent through the mail about making my computer connect to the internet several times faster etc. Of course, once installed it actually made the computer work much slower and caused my e-mail to disappear. If it ain't broke, don't fix it!
Epilogue
Mark threw open the front door and then paused, the hand in possession of the keys still upraised from the process of unlocking. It was as if he were returning after several months abroad, the foreign country that he'd left now possessing a stronger reality than his home. He wondered if the French had coined a term for the oddly disjointing sensation that was the converse of deja vu. He wasn't sure if it was caused by the magnitude of events that had transpired in the interim or if it was because the version of him that was entering the house was so different from the obsessed, driven individual who had left.
"Mark, is everything okay?" A soft, concerned voice at his elbow broke into his reflections as Amanda tried to peer round him to discover the cause of his sudden incapacity.
He cast down a beatific smile of reassurance. "Everything's fine, honey. Just glad to be home."
It wasn't a lie, but neither was it the complete truth, and that disconnected sensation snapped at his heels as he led the way into the house. It was as if he kept climbing confidently onto a step that wasn't there, landing with a startling and jarring jolt back on the ground.
Mark tried to ignore the uneasy feeling in favour of the familiarity of domesticity as he put away the groceries Amanda brought in from the car. Both he and Steve were going to be discharged from the hospital that day, but his son had wanted to visit with Cheryl, who was recovering satisfactorily in her own hospital room, so Amanda had volunteered to drive Mark back and prepare a meal to celebrate the Sloans' survival and their return home.
Mark welcomed the resumption of normality as signaled by the four of them sitting together and eating at the Beach House, as they had so often in the past, but for once he also found himself craving some time alone to take in and process recent events. Steve had slept for almost the entire two days they were in the hospital, but it seemed like the whole staff had found an excuse to stop by and chat, to confirm with their own senses his remarkable resurrection. He was touched by the affection shown by so many, but the constant stream of visitors had left little time for quiet reflection.
Amanda sensed his preoccupation and made no attempt to force conversation. "Why don't you have a rest while I take care of this?" she suggested gently.
Almost before the words of grateful acceptance fell from his lips, Mark was heading for his bedroom. However, an unwary step as he neared the hall resulted in a mysterious crunching underfoot. He lifted his shoe to discover a shard of china now crushed almost into powder by his weight. Closer investigation revealed the pile of the carpet to be liberally besprinkled with splinters of glass and ceramics.
The variety of composition and colours informed him that a disaster of some magnitude had taken place, though some effort had obviously been made to pick up the bigger pieces. For a moment, he stood staring as light caught the facets of the glass causing them to sparkle innocently into his eyes and it was several seconds later before he realized Amanda was speaking to him.
"Sorry, honey. I was distracted. I'm just going to get the vacuum out. I think Steve broke something here."
His tone was steady, almost dismissive, and it camouflaged the slither of pain slowly uncoiling in his gut as the words conjured a potent image of how the damage had been done. He had never seen his son truly lose control. There was a core of steadiness to Steve's character that seemed indestructible and yet Mark could also imagine, only too vividly, the guilt and grief his son had experienced.
Mark rejected Amanda's offer of help and hauled out the cleaner. There were just little fragments of material, but they were a surprisingly poignant reminder of all his son had been through and he needed to clear them away before Steve arrived home -- a symbolic destruction of his son's anguish. The house needed to be intact to confirm his world was still intact.
Mark removed the last evidence of Steve's devastation of the glassware and was moving on to washing the wall when the doorbell rang and, with a grimace of resignation, he went to answer it. He should have guessed that the hospital staff would not be alone in wanting confirmation of his continuing existence. He was prepared for reporters or old friends but was surprised to find the imposing figure of Maxwell Trenton on the doorstep.
Although his stomach dipped at the prospect of conversing with the other man, Mark greeted him courteously. "Dr. Trenton, this is an unexpected pleasure. Please come in."
The industrialist was used to commanding an economic empire, but he looked uncertain as he followed Mark into his study. "I don't intend to take a lot of your time, Dr. Sloan. I know you have only recently returned from the hospital."
"Can I get you a drink?" Mark was conscious of a reversal of their positions from the previous interview as he sat behind his desk.
"No, thank you. I really don't intend to stay long." Trenton cleared his throat self-consciously. "I feel I owe you a tremendous debt of gratitude and an apology."
Mark tried to wave off both as unnecessary, but the magnate persisted. "I coerced you into helping me in a totally unfair way and you almost died as a result."
He again overrode Mark's attempts at interjection. "But I have to thank you for finding Serena's killers. It helps to know that they've paid for what they did. I don't think I could ever have started to come to terms with her death if her murderers were still out there."
Mark could keep silent no longer. "You're thanking the wrong person. I might be the one who figured out who was responsible, but if it had been left to me alone, I would be feeding the fishes and the Devlins would have got away scot-free. It's my son who really deserves the credit."
Steve, in his rare waking moments, had been reticent about the specific details of his actions since Mark had gone missing, but Amanda and Jesse had more than made up for that deficiency. Mark had heard of his son's reaction to his putative death and the frantic search he'd initiated while barely off his hospital bed. Jesse had also related in tones of astounded awe how Steve, despite his not inconsiderable injuries, had carried Mark a lengthy distance to safety.
Mark would never embarrass his son with an overt acknowledgement of these intimate particulars, but the knowledge of the drastic measures his son had been prepared to suffer for his sake never failed to bring a lump to his throat, so his voice was noticeably thicker as he reiterated. "If it wasn't for my son's courage and persistence in the face of tremendous odds, I'd be dead and the Devlins would have committed both murders with impunity."
"Then I owe him my gratitude too." Trenton readily accepted the correction. "I'll write to his department to express my thanks for his stalwart efforts."
Mark would have dropped a hint to that effect if the other man hadn't suggested it first, knowing that Steve's insubordinate actions on his behalf had endangered his son's career. "Please do that," he encouraged. "Steve disobeyed several orders to rescue me, which could result in trouble for him. A letter from such an influential man such as yourself could make a difference in determining the disciplinary measures he faces."
Trenton expressed his pleasure at being able to assist, then sat rigidly, staring blindly out of the window, obviously needing to unburden something more but unable to broach the subject.
Mark tried to ease the conversation in what he thought, from his personal experience, was the general direction that would help the other father. "I know this is difficult time for you..."
That was all it took. Trenton shifted his gaze to the doctor with sudden intensity. "Why Serena?"
The childish directness of the question, the voice oddly small and lost from so formidable a man, took Mark aback. He hesitated, not sure if the question was rhetorical, a genuine plea for information, or even intended as a query on the larger scale of cosmic injustice.
The ambiguity was clarified as the industrialist continued. "I don't understand. What did they gain by killing her?"
Mark concealed a heavy sigh. "With Jack Devlin dead, there's a lot of questions that will be left forever unanswered. There are a lot of conjectures in my personal theory of what happened, but I don't think it was his intention to kill her at the beginning. I don't even know if their first meeting was planned or accidental, but I think they met through their mutual interest in health food, either at a club or a store. Maybe he concealed his identity or perhaps she just didn't care."
"I never discussed the more sordid details of the business with her," Trenton put in heavily.
"Jack Devlin was a strong, vital man, passionate and complex."
"The very opposite of her boyfriend." The magnate nodded in understanding.
To get both of them through this discussion, Mark had to maintain a dispassionate demeanor, but he was finding it increasingly difficult not to become emotionally tangled in the narration. He sucked in another lungful of air. "Jack, on the other hand, was solely interested in acquiring Serena's research. If Devlin Pharmaceuticals developed a new anti-microbial first, it could save his company."
One of Trenton's hands was clenched, the other rubbing across the knuckles in a restless motion and Mark could sympathise since odd internal tremors told him he should be shaking like a leaf but his voice was steady as he approached the denouement of the story. "My best guess is that things fell apart when Serena found she was pregnant, the timing making it obvious that Owen Hogan was the father. The prospect of motherhood changed her priorities, accentuating Jack Devlin's lack of paternal qualities. She decided to break it off with him.
"Devlin was more than furious, he was savage in his frustration. I'm sure revenge played a large part in his decision to kill her -- he wasn't always rational when angry -- but he also hoped that her death would disrupt research in your company enough to keep Devlin Pharmaceuticals alive."
Mark fell silent, his reserves exhausted. He hoped that Trenton now possessed sufficient information to find closure, because more graphic details would serve no purpose.
"I feel responsible." The magnate studied his fingers as he confessed in a low voice, "If I had conducted my business in a more...if I hadn't been so ruthless professionally, maybe my daughter would still be alive."
Mark felt a wrenching empathy at the pained words. He felt enough guilt for Carol's death simply for not being there, for somehow failing her. The thought of actually playing a role in her demise, albeit unintentional, was unbearable, and he hurried to find satisfactory words of reassurance.
"I do understand how you feel, believe me. I don't know if you remember the Sunnyview serial bomber. Well, because of my involvement in that case, he chose Community General as a target. Many innocent people were killed in the explosion, and I nearly lost my son and many good friends. Those people would not have been in danger if I hadn't made certain choices."
Mark knew it wasn't a perfect analogy, but he felt his central point was valid. "It was hard to escape the feeling of blame, but I came to realise that I couldn't hold myself responsible for the irrational actions of others. You made legitimate business decisions like thousands of others have done and will continue to do. You had no way of knowing to what they would lead. Jack Devlin and his brothers are solely accountable for Serena's death."
Trenton didn't look entirely convinced, but Mark hoped that he had planted the seeds of doubt deep enough so that with the watering of common sense and the warmth of family support, it should take root firmly.
The magnate seemed to be considering Mark's words, then, with a decisive nod, he stood up. "I've taken enough of your time, Dr. Sloan. You've been more than kind. If there's ever anything I can do for you, please let me know."
They shook hands firmly and, emboldened by the offer of friendship, Mark decided to make one more suggestion. "Dr. Trenton, I'd like to offer one last piece of advice, if I may. You have lost a daughter, but you still have a son. This is a time when you need each other." He would have liked to say more, to have shared the insight he'd gained from personal experience, but the words seemed too sententious, too intrusive, and he decided that hint would have to suffice.
He escorted his visitor to the door where they parted with mutual expressions of friendship, and Trenton was walking across the driveway when Jesse drove up in his newly recovered car. Mark watched as Trenton changed course, clearly spotting Steve in the passenger seat. At his approach, Steve carefully stepped out of the vehicle, the one crutch under his left arm taking a lot of his weight. Mark remembered the argument that had ensued between his son and Jesse over the relative merits of different forms of transportation.
Steve's feet were still extremely tender and Jesse had recommended a wheelchair, a suggestion that his patient had immediately rejected, pointing out the difficulties of maneuvering such a vehicle around the stairs of the Beach House. His counter-proposal of crutches had been at first rejected by Jesse, since the injury to Steve's shoulder made it impossible to bear weight with it. A compromise had obviously since been reached.
Mark couldn't hear what was said, but Trenton exchanged some words with Steve, shook his hand and finally departed, leaving Mark to scrutinise his son's approach. Having his feet bound up then enclosed in what looked like giant bunny slippers created a bizarrely comical appearance, but Mark was used to looking beyond the surface.
Steve was walking with no apparent difficulty, but his pallor and, perhaps more revealingly, the way Jesse was hovering beside him, betrayed the struggle behind the nonchalance. Mark appreciated that the effort was for his sake and had no intention of nullifying that sacrifice by letting his own concern show. He greeted them warmly and led the way into the house, listening to the sotto voce conversation behind him.
"Be careful on the stairs," Jesse hissed softly.
Steve's somewhat irritated response carried more clearly. "I've been climbing stairs almost since I was born. See...how am I doing so far?"
There was an alarming thud. "Well, I'm not sure about your form, but major points for style from the Russian judge," Jesse commented dryly.
Mark kept staring resolutely ahead, his mouth twitching at the commentary, yet the banter and the warmth of his son and friends' presence seeped into his soul, allowing something inside that had been derailed to slide back into place. It was like a dislocated joint finally popping back in the socket -- there was a residual soreness, but the relief from the cessation of pain was immense.
The smile on his face was genuine as he rejoined Amanda, but as she raised a questioning eyebrow he just shrugged, picking up a few tomatoes and juggling them in a sudden excess of elation. He chased after one that escaped his attempt to catch it, arriving in the living room in time to witness the next power struggle between his son and the young doctor.
Jesse had seated Steve on the couch with his legs propped up on the cushions. "You need to keep off your feet as much as possible so get comfortable and stay."
"Stay?" Steve parroted incredulously. "What am I - a dog?"
"A big, shaggy, black lab," Jesse mused. "Loyal and obedient."
"Which would make you one of those annoying, yappy, little mutts with the shrill bark and stubby little tails," Steve retorted tartly. "And right now, you're just like a mongrel worrying at a juicy bone."
Steve was not nearly as bad a patient as Jesse liked to insinuate, but, blessed with a strong and healthy body, he tended to get impatient with his own infirmities and push himself harder than wisdom would dictate. Mark appreciated Jesse's willingness to play the heavy, sparing him the necessity of doing so.
For now, Mark came to his beleaguered son's assistance. "Hey, Jess, could you make that tasty salad dressing you were using at Bob's last week?"
"Sure, no problem." Jesse waggled a finger in Steve's direction, mouthing 'stay,' once more. One glance at his son's mutinous expression showed Mark the futility of the command, so he wasn't surprised when they returned with the salad to find the sofa empty.
Steve hadn't gone far; they discovered him on the deck, reclining on one chair with his feet supported by another, his face upturned to the pale sunlight that had finally replaced the incessant rain.
Jesse placed the salad bowl on the table and gently kicked his friend's chair. "What part of 'stay' didn't you understand?"
Steve didn't bother to open his eyes. "I think we've established that I'm not always good at following orders. Newman had a lot to say on that topic as well."
"Steve?" Mark broke in with concern, and the sound of his voice brought his son alert at once.
"It's fine, Dad, honestly. He chewed me out, but off the record he also congratulated me on a job well done. I think he's happy he hasn't lost his best consultant."
Jesse's foot was tapping impatiently. "Your feet aren't going to heal if you keep walking on them."
Steve regarded him with a jaundiced eye. "It's not like I went for a run on the beach. I just needed some air."
"You could have asked one of us to open a window. As a matter of fact, air has been known to actually make it inside the house from time to time."
That sarcastic reply caused Steve's mouth to curve unwillingly. "Are you this overbearing with all your patients or am I just the lucky one? You are totally unreasonable."
Jesse smiled sweetly. "As a matter of fact, I'm a completely reasonable man. Just see things my way and do what I say and everything will be fine."
"That's your definition of reasonable?" Steve shook his head in spurious disbelief.
"If you're so concerned about his feet, maybe you should carry him back inside," Amanda interposed mischievously.
Jesse eyed Steve's greater bulk with mock horror. "He'd squash me flat. No, lugging bodies around is his schtick not mine."
Mark caught the oddly apprehensive look thrown his way by his son at that comment, but didn't acknowledge it, merely beaming paternally around at younger colleagues. "Let's begin."
It was the only false note in an extremely pleasant meal, and Mark's feelings of well-being persisted throughout the evening as he wrapped the warmth and love of his extended family around him securely.
After the meal, Mark co-opted Jesse's help in clearing up, watching in amusement as the younger doctor scowled at Steve as he smirked and gestured at his bandaged feet with a helpless shrug. Amanda was exempted from washing up after her efforts in preparing the food. She watched Steve settle back in replete satisfaction and broke the silence before she lost her nerve.
"Steve, I feel I owe you an apology." Seeing the surprise and incipient rejection of the notion on his face encouraged her to continue. "I didn't believe you when you insisted Mark was still alive. I should have been more supportive."
Steve reached out a hand, and she allowed hers to be enveloped. "You've got nothing to apologise for. You may have had your doubts, but you were just looking out for me. You might have had reservations, but you still let me drag you from pillar to post. Without you and Jesse...well, I don't know what I'd have done. Besides, you were probably right. It wasn't that I was being logical. After losing... after everything, I just couldn't accept he was gone. It was just sheer stubborn stupidity."
"Well, I just wanted you to know that I've never been so happy to be wrong in all my life. There were times there that I was afraid we were going to lose you both."
A sober grimace confirmed the legitimacy of her worry but Steve didn't venture a comment, so she continued with a wry smile. "At times, I can't truly believe he's really here. I feel the need to poke him to make sure he's real."
This concept resonated with Steve, and he glanced towards the glass doors to check that no masculine ears would overhear his confession. "In the hospital..." he hesitated, continuing only after an encouraging nod, "each time I woke up I was disoriented. I could never figure out if I'd just woken from a nightmare and everything was alright or whether I'd just dreamt he was safe and I was waking into the nightmare."
It was not an admission he would make to many people, and not even to her would he try to articulate the feelings that had haunted him in those split seconds of waking, the terror of emotional freefall, not sure if a parachute even existed.
Amanda was surprised only that Steve had admitted that much. Recovering consciousness after the shooting to be told Mark was dead was bound to leave greater scars than the accident that put him there. Despite the fact that he'd presented a front of unfaltering determination, never seeming discouraged, she knew that the doubt and fear had been consuming him.
Further conversation was prevented by the arrival of Mark and Jesse bearing coffee. Sensitive as always to atmosphere, Mark realised immediately that he'd interrupted communication of some emotional import. With a glance, he signaled an apology to his son and an offer to leave again, but a slight shake of Steve's head and a crooked grin indicated it wasn't necessary. Amanda watched the exchange with some amusement and the thought that no two people in the world could manage wordless communication better than these two.
The sun had set in a glory of pinks and purples by the time the visitors were ready to leave and, since a chill was setting back in, Jesse insisted on assisting Steve back to his snug position on the sofa. Steve listened with exaggerated patience to the repetition of medical do's and don'ts, but as the doctor gave up and headed for the door, he called him back, "Jesse..."
The young man looked back warily, obviously expecting a resumption of the good-natured needling that they'd both enjoyed that evening, but all Steve said was, "Thanks."
It was monosyllabic, yet contained a wealth of meaning and sincerity. Quite clearly it wasn't just 'thanks for patching me up multiple times', but also, 'thanks for being there and trying to argue sense into me' and most importantly 'thanks for coming after me that night'.
Jesse's smile lit up his whole face. "I'd like to say 'any time,' but actually I'd prefer 'never again.'"
Mark saw them out, then returned to peer perspicaciously down at his son. "Can I get you anything: coffee, hot chocolate...painkillers?"
With a sigh of resignation, Steve met his gaze. He'd thought he'd been successful in hiding his rising discomfort, but he should have known better. He weighed the merits of further obfuscation, but experience had taught him that the blue gimlets piercing him might as well be lie detectors, so he opted for tempered truth.
"My shoulder's aching somewhat, but I really don't want to take anything that's going to make me feel dopey."
For a moment Mark didn't reply, as the image of how the original damage to that shoulder had been exacerbated flashed vividly in front of his eyes. The grating of what even he recognised as irrational guilt that ensued caused his voice to emanate more gruffly than he'd intended. "I'll get you something for that."
As he tipped a couple of analgesics into his hand in the kitchen, he gave himself a swift mental kick. Allowing the shadow of constraint to grow between them again was no way to thank Steve for the sacrifices he'd made on his father's behalf. The spectre of imminent death had hovered too closely to both of them to ignore the epiphany it had delivered. No matter the extent of grief and loss he'd suffered, gratitude for what he still had was stronger, and he couldn't afford to waste more time not appreciating the family he had left.
He returned bearing the promised medicine. With only one hand available, Steve needed help juggling glass and pills, and Mark assisted quietly, handing over each item as required. Steve stiffened as an injudicious move sent a jolt of pain stabbing into his shoulder and although he stifled the automatic imprecation that rose to his lips, he looked up guiltily at his father, catching the concerned expression there.
"Dad, I'm fine, really. Don't worry."
Mark placed the water on the coffee table and seated himself on the sofa, careful not to jar his son's injuries any further. "Worrying is just part of the job description of being a parent," he commented ruefully. "And I've got pretty good at it if I say so myself!"
Despite the levity of his words, memories tumbled haphazardly through his mind, momentarily robbing him of breath. He struggled to pin down the squirming mass of his own thoughts sufficiently to find the words to express the welter of emotions he was feeling. He had always feared that one day someone would come to his front door to tell him his son had been killed in the line of duty, and he wasn't sure he'd survive that. Would he really worry about Steve more now? Maybe not, but his fear would have a darker, more desperate edge, tinged with the painful reality of losing a child. Yet he had no intention of burdening his son with the depth of his fears.
He paused, trying to make sure his next words came out correctly, but in the end he let his instincts take over. "I worried about you...well, you've always done things the hard way. As a soldier and cop, you face danger every day. With Carol, it was the opposite. I worried about the choices she made. She tended to opt for the easy way out."
Steve knew his father well enough to recognise his speech as a combination of apology and offer of amends. For all of his own surface openness and amiability, Mark himself kept back a great portion of his inner soul from the prying regard of others. He made no attempt to speak, partly because he was reluctant to interrupt Mark's train of thought, but also because his father had brought up so many issues in just a few sentences that he couldn't work out which to address first.
Mark's voice was soft, almost abstracted as he continued. "It took me a long time to recover after your mother died, but somewhere along the way her loss transformed from a bleeding wound to that of a dull ache still lurking somewhere in the back of my mind, though not overwhelming me as it once had. I know that eventually I'll come to terms with Carol's death the same way. But it's hard to get past the anger, that she died for such a stupid, useless, ignorant reason. She was so young and had so much to offer and..."
Mark paused again, his breath caught in his throat, oxygen suddenly too thick to draw in, and Steve moved to clasp his knee, needing to offer reassurance.
"If I had just done something differently, been more understanding at some time or stricter at another, then maybe she would have made different decisions and not been in that godforsaken town at that time."
Mark looked uncharacteristically vulnerable, as if in trying to express his feelings he had shed a skin, leaving nerve-ends too near the surface, yet Steve was the one who felt exposed, his insides clenching with the intensity of his emotions.
"Dad, I understand how you feel. I feel guilty because I wasn't there when she needed me, but of all the things to question, your parenting skills should be the last. I'm speaking from personal experience here."
The slight incredulity in his tone was perhaps more effective than his words and Steve could see the haunting anguish in his father's eyes diminish, so he pushed home his advantage. A natural reticence on emotive topics inherited from his father was now overcome by his father's need.
"I mean, seriously, Dad. You have to be fishing for compliments here. You have to know that you're the best Dad in the world. You've always been there for us." He held up his hand to forestall the obvious protest. "No, you were there for Carol too, and she knew that. She always understood that if she ever needed you she could come back, but she made her own decisions, and they don't alter the fact that she really loved you."
Mark's eyes were suspiciously bright, so Steve shifted subjects. "Moreover, when you talk about worry, you have to know that it goes both ways." He didn't state that his father had given him enough fuel in that department to ignite searing nightmares for the rest of his life, but the addendum lay unvoiced but acknowledged between them.
Steve's blue eyes met those so like his own and saw the pain that lurked there, but also a depth of love that Mark couldn't verbalise, but that had always told Steve all that he ever needed to know about his father's feelings and all that Mark was unable to say.
Mark watched the son he cherished take a drink of water. He was touched by the mutual revelations, but felt the need to move to a lighter topic. "I was thirsty myself, but that was the only glass I could find."
He could tell from the pink tinge that coloured his son's ears when the reference registered, but Steve rallied quickly. "Now that's a funny thing. You see, I was bored when you were gone and decided to teach myself how to juggle to pass the time."
Mark's left eyebrow expressed his incredulity by trying to crawl off his forehead, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he listened to Steve enthusiastically embroider his tale, explaining how he had all the chinaware spinning in the air when he got distracted by a bikini-clad female strolling past the windows and everything came crashing down.
"Well that explains things," Mark responded solemnly. A reminiscent glimmer suddenly lit his gaze. "You know what that reminds me of?" He sprang to his feet and dove into his study to return with several leather bound photo albums one of which he spread open on the coffee table in front of them. Flicking through a few pages, he found the picture he sought. A five-year-old Carol was covered from head to foot with a fluffy whipped cream concoction. Her eyes, just visible through the goop were caught in the transition from shock to guilt. "She was just trying to help," Mark remembered fondly, "but the plastic bowl was too heavy for her and when it hit the floor, a wave of goo just splashed up and engulfed her."
The next picture also triggered an anecdote, and soon the two Sloans were engrossed in the past as they turned the pages of the album. Steve contributed the occasional comment but mostly listened as his father recounted many small moments that were lost to his own memory. It was poignant, and yet the tales were mostly humorous, cementing together happy chunks of the past into an integrated whole. He relaxed fully as a quick glance at his father's untroubled expression told him that the process of healing had truly begun.
Near the end of the third album, Mark discovered a copy of the same picture Steve had framed in his apartment. He stared for a long moment at the family preserved on that paper, intact and enduring -- four people with almost identical smiles. He'd always liked the number four, finding it redolent of security and stability like four legs anchoring a table. The loss of each precious life was like losing a limb, requiring a period of adjustment, of relearning balance, but once the feel of it became the normal tone of the body, a person functioned with it and ceased to feel the constant ache consciously unless something prodded the sore spot.
Despite the loss of two of its members, two of his anchors, his little family had lost none of its stability, thanks in large part to the boundless heart and indomitable spirit of his son. Steve would not be restricted to the role of the hypothetical lone table leg. As he gazed at the photograph, Mark realised that now he could be grateful for the time they had shared as a family and not just grieve for its conclusion.
"Dad, are you alright?"
The concern that had crept back into his son's voice woke him from his reverie, and Mark turned to him with a smile.
"I'm fine," he replied, realising as he spoke that, for the first time in a long while, he truly was.
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Author's Note. That's all she wrote, folks! Thanks first and foremost to Della, who jumped in there with both feet volunteering to beta this story midstream. You did a great job! Thanks also to Nonny who remembered that this story was for her. And thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story. Without that encouragement I would lack the inspiration to write at all. My appreciation goes in particular to those who have reviewed so faithfully and/or sent me personal feedback - to Judith/Florence, Timmy, Sharon, Sally, BJP, Julie, Patscats and Sloanwriter. This fandom draws in some wonderful people!