Disclaimer…I own nothing

Author's Note…Holy cow. I'm exhausted after writing this chapter. It's chock full of metaphors from beginning to end…extra points if you mention them in your review (hint, hint, nudge, nudge.) When I first began writing this chapter, with the conclusion in mind) I wasn't even sure if this was how I wanted to end it (you'll understand what I'm talking about when you get there…but don't skip! It won't make any sense!) but the idea had been in my head for so long and I know that some people won't like it. To those, I am sorry. I hope you enjoyed the rest of it. Plus…congratulate me! I managed to get through an entire story without basing a single chapter around a folk/country song! Or any other song! Woohoo! One more thing…I would just like to thank the various reviewers and my beta for being constant pillars of ideas and constructive criticisms. You guys know who you are--and you're awesome! Ok, last thing, I swear: This chapter is totally unbeta-ed. I have read and reread it ad nauseam so I think it should be readable. I didn't want to use a beta…well, it's the last installment and it's got a pretty big shocker at the end, so I wanted to be very mum about it. No need to mock me! And now…the final chapter of Rest In Peace...

From all the rest I single out you, having a message for you,
You are to die-let others tell you what they please, I cannot prevaricate,
I am exact and merciless, but I love you-there is no escape for you.

Softly I lay my right hand upon you, you just feel it,
I do not argue, I bend my head close and half envelop it,
I sit quietly by, I remain faithful,
I am more than nurse, more than parent or neighbor,
I absolve you from all except yourself spiritual bodily, that is eternal, you yourself will surely escape,
The corpse you will leave will be but excrementitious.

The sun burst through in unlooked for directions,
Strong thoughts fill you and confidence, you smile,
You forget you are sick, as I forget you are sick,
You do not see the medicines, you do not mind the weeping friends,
I am with you,
I exclude others from you, there is nothing to be commiserated,
I do not commiserate, I congratulate you.

-Walt Whitman, To One Shortly To Die

Wilson followed the duo out to Cameron's outdated Saab, despite the fact that he was still supposed to be at work. He was unable to keep a pace with them, which made him extremely uncomfortable. "You want to get some coffee or something," he asked desperately as Cameron tried to open her car door.

It wasn't Cameron that answered him, but Johanna. "No thanks. Do you want to come over for dinner?"

Cameron gave Wilson a warning look that very clearly told him no, he did not want to come to dinner. "I've got to eat with my wife," he lied.

"Oh." Johanna paused for a minute. "You don't have a wedding ring," she pointed out.

Wilson hadn't realized how sharp a child Johanna was, and was unprepared for her response. "I don't like to wear it at work," he faltered and looked at Cameron's hand, which, like his, seemed oddly naked without a ring. He had never even seen her wear one. "What's your excuse, Cameron?"

She looked rightly shocked that he challenged her in this way. "Mine's at home," she answered coldly. "I think you should go now."

Wilson gave a weak nod and retreated. Once he was out of earshot, Johanna looked up at Cameron. "How does he know your name? Does he work with you?"

Cameron, who was beginning to shiver as they were still standing outside the car, shook her head. "Not exactly. He works at the hospital, but not in my department."

"Then how does he know you?"

"It's…" Cameron would have loved to say that she saw Wilson from time to time in the corridors, but that wasn't the truth. At least not the whole truth. "Complicated."

Her answer didn't seem to sit well with Johanna. "How complicated could it be?"

Cameron laughed softly to herself. "You'd be surprised."

Johanna crossed her arms, her usually dormant temper rising. "Why can't you just tell me?"

Cameron sighed; she and her daughter had their slight differences, but they got along pretty well on the whole. This would be their first true fight. "Because Johanna, I'm not ready yet. Have you ever had to do something you weren't ready to do?"

"Of course I--oh." A sudden look of understanding flashed across Johanna's face. "Sorry," she said sheepishly.

Cameron smiled. "Thank you." She looked down at her hands and stepped into the car. "So, do you think I need my wedding ring?"

Johanna shook her head and climbed into the car as well, being sure to strap herself into her seatbelt. "No. I'm not even going to get one when I get married."

Cameron laughed, and backed out of her parking space. "Why not?"

"Because I'll love it, and I don't want to love something I'll probably lose."

Cameron's shoulders stiffened and she reminded herself that Johanna wasn't talking about her. There was no way; she did not know about her parent's marriage in its entirety. Her opinion had surely been shaped by the process of being moved from home to home, and constantly faced with the possibility of leaving something--or someone--she loved.

Ignoring the guilt that settled into her stomach, Cameron realized not just the similarities, but also the parallels, between Johanna and Bryan. The dominant one being, of course, that they were both the ones that got to say good-bye. For the first time, Cameron realized that being left behind wasn't the only way to get hurt.

XXXxxxXXX

In literature, you can always identify the turning point in the protagonist's life. Be it through a rite of passage, the death of the antagonist, sobriety (or lack thereof), or any other means, it always happens.

In Romeo and Juliet, it was when Romeo was banished from Verona. In Harry Potter, it was when evil came back to life. In Sam I Am, it was when Sam decided he would get over his pride and taste the green eggs and ham.

In Cameron's life, the turning point came on the next Saturday, when her daughter asked to see her father's grave.

XXXxxxXXX

Cameron

We arrive at the graveyard at exactly 10:48, which happens to be an hour before Bryan's time of death, just so you know. A bird is chirping, Johanna is crunching a granola bar in tune with the snapping of twigs we step on, and all these sounds of normalcy are almost enough to make me go crazy. The cemetery is my private state of surrealism, and not being here alone is completely alien to me.

Kneeling down by the foot of Bryan's grave, I gather a few rocks and place them on top of it. "Mom," Johanna queries, confused by my behavior, "what are you doing?"

Her munchkin voice is nothing but a combination of sweetness and genuine curiosity, but it somehow rubs me the wrong way. "It's a Jewish tradition," I say evenly.

"But you don't believe in G/d," Johanna counters earnestly.

"No, I don't," I agree, fighting my temper, "but your dad did."

"Oh," Johanna replies quietly. She leaves it at that, because she is perceptive enough to understand that my flat voice leaves no room for argument. If we were anywhere but here, I would be immensely proud that we have come so far and she knows me so well, but we are here and this is now, and all I can manage is 'weakly grateful.'

Bryan and I; we were like conduction currents. Two molecules zooming along, only to eventually come together and form something beautiful; precious energy. Or, in our case, our daughter.

Johanna sits Indian-style on the ground, the Earth swelling up below her. I watch her as she cautiously stretches out her bony arm to trace out the letters of her father's tomb. I can clearly make out a question forming behind her eyes, and I know exactly what it is.

Silently, I brace myself for the future as I hear the sound of footsteps behind us.

XXXxxxXXX

Wilson

As I make out their two forms in the somewhat foggy distance, the nagging feeling that I'm interrupting something raises its voice, but I ignore it. I'm quite good at that. It's not that I have no sense of right and wrong; I actually have a very acute judgment in that area. It's just that over the days, the months, and the years; I have learned how to wholly disregard it.

"Didn't expect to see you two here," I say conversationally, despite the fact that we are in a graveyard, mourning the man that, if he weren't dead, would be offering up bad advice to us.

Cameron turns to me and the look in her eyes tells me that my nagging feeling was absolutely correct. The worst thing about that feeling? It is one to gloat.

I crouch down low to the soil and pick out a few pebbles. They are all smooth and rounded, as if they have been shaped by ferocious waters. "Johanna," I say clearly, "do you know that I'm your uncle?"

Johanna's eyes widen at this exposure. She turns to Cameron for validation. "Is he," she asks, her voice full of hope.

Cameron eyes me and for a scary moment, it looks like she considers lying. Her mouth forms the word 'no,' but she catches herself in the nick of time. "Yes, he is."

Johanna shifts her whole body to me. "So, you were his…brother?"

I nod and Johanna grins, pleased with this revelation.

"Did he look like you?"

I glance quickly at Cameron, and shake my head. "Not really."

"Oh," Johanna responds, disappointed.

"It's you he looks like," I say promptly.

Johanna brightens up, like I have just made her whole world.

We sit in silence for a few moments, each lost in our own little universes, each contemplating Bryan's relationship with each other. I think his with Johanna and Cameron is much more significant. After all; he chose to be with them. He got stuck with me.

"He loved you," Cameron says suddenly, reading my mind. "Talked about you all the time. Said you always teased him for running track when the real family sports were skiing and baseball." She laughs, somewhat bitterly. "Three months into our marriage, I put up a Yankees poster, and he told me that I had to take it down immediately or get a divorce because there was no way any wife of his could be anything but a Mets fan."

I nod; this sounds exactly like Bryan. "He always rooted for the underdog."

"I know." She pauses. "It annoyed the crap out of me."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Johanna open her mouth to reprimand her mother for using the word 'crap', but I shake my head. She complies in resignation, but still, she complies. Apparently, blood relations are big with this kid.

"We had the videotape of the '69 World Series," I tell both of them, "and every New Years Eve, we would watch it. My dad said--"

"--That it gave hope that good would always prevail. I remember." Cameron looks at me, waiting for me to continue. Wanting.

It takes me a while. I am somewhat shaken that she has knowledge of this, of some part of mine and his youth. It is as though she has raped my childhood memories, my journal, and I know all too well that she can use the words any way she pleases. I cannot exactly determine what she is trying to do here--is she trying to challenge my story and my relationship with Bryan and Johanna or show me that she loved him too? She smiles weakly at me. I continue, adding flavor to my humble tale: "And, even though he knew that the Mets would win, he would be crazy anxious, like all the Mets fans were that year. It would even scare my--our--mom. And then, when they won, he would go crazy and he would be so excited that he wouldn't be able to sleep and the two of us would always do something stupid that night. And spend the rest of Winter Vacation grounded."

Cameron nods, and, in that moment, we are in perfect understanding of each other. This is so new an experience, and, to be frank, it scares the crap out of me. My breath is shallow and my fingers are shivering even inside my coat pocket, and my car, almost a mile away, is beckoning to me, but I make no motion to move. This is probably my only chance to truly redeem myself, and I'm sure as hell not going to let it go.

XXXxxxXXX

Johanna

Before you begin life, before you begin to really live, it is very, very, important that you know that every single plan you make, even the best ones, are going to be destroyed.

I'm not being gloomy. It's the truth, even though I know you don't want to believe it. And while you have your whole brain yelling at you not to believe this crazy little kid here, there's a much quieter voice right above your heart telling you that I'm sorta kinda right. That's the one you should listen to. It's like one of my foster-moms said about me: Still waters run deep. I'm the still water. Unlucky for me; I'm also the one who's drowning in it. It sounds weird; but it can happen. It usually does; in the end, you're the one to kill yourself.

You want to know exactly how I know about this plans thing, because if the whole map of your life that you drew when you were a little kid is about to be thrown down the toilet, there has to be a good reason. Well, there is a reason. It's not a good reason, and it's not a very solid one, but it's there.

It is because G/d, Satan, Jesus, Buddha, Big Bird, or whoever you believe in, already made one up for you. And I promise; this map will wreck your own.

And don't think this excuses you from all the bad things you did. I tried that…I told my teacher that it wasn't my fault I dipped snotty Lori Cooper's hair in paint, it was G/d's, but she said that He also gave me free will. I had the choice to do right or wrong, and I chose wrong.

Anyway, He or She or Them or It have already decided a bunch of things. Most of them are going to screw everything up. I know this because not ten whole minutes ago, I had a plan to ask my mom how my dad died. And not two whole minutes ago, I could tell my mom had a plan to make everybody happy. And not one minute and 59 seconds ago, some old man stood at the grave next to my dad's and started crying.

XXXxxxXXX

Wilson, Johanna, and Cameron all stared at this wizened man, all shocked to different degrees that he had broken up their little pow-wow of sorts. Cameron peered over Johanna's shoulder and read the grave quietly to Wilson and Johanna. "Esther Tillerman. Born October 28, 1920. Died November 1, 1980. Gone, but not forgotten."

"Was that your wife," Wilson asked loudly and somewhat rudely.

The man--Mr. Tillerman--looked over and nodded.

"She died twenty-six years ago," Wilson calculated aloud, almost coldly.

Mr. Tillerman nodded again. "Of cancer."

"She was lucky. She got a good sixty years in."

"No, she wasn't," Mr. Tillerman argued. "Cancer. Do you realize what kind of death that is?"

"I do," Cameron put forth in a strained voice. Wilson nodded defensively.

Mr. Tillerman looked kindly toward Cameron, then harshly at Wilson. "Then she'll know exactly what if feels like to have your spouse begging you to let her die."

Yes, I do know what that feels like, Cameron silently agreed. And I listened.

XXXxxxXXX

Bryan

When I was twelve, and my paternal grandfather was dying, my mother said to me that as she was aging (but never reaching past forty), she had been coming to understand that as people get older, they look forward to the peace of death. My somewhat immature mind thought this was the single most morbid thing that woman had ever uttered. My hands, which were admittedly as immature as my mind, slammed themselves over my ears and I refused to listen any more.

When I was a slightly more mature twenty-one, and nearing the end of my life at an alarming speed, I wished I had stuck it out to hear what she had to say, for I had begun to understand what she meant entirely too late. I was exhausted of living. I knew it wasn't due to depression or cancer or chemo or anything except for the simple fact that the big pie in the sky (as my body died quicker than my mind, my mind began to rebel against everything it knew…a phase that lasted an entire twelve days. On the twelfth night, my wife told me she was pregnant) already had a plan for me. A plan which included dying at twenty-one. My body was only prepared to live 7,665 days, give or take. It only had 2,797,725 hours worth of heart beats, 11,037,600 minutes worth of deep breaths. Unfortunately for me, I didn't find this out until the grim reaper in a lab coat let me in on the arrangement.

I tell you this now so that you will understand why, when lying in my too-small hospital bed, I told my wife that I wanted her to kill me.

First off; you have to understand the incredible amount of pain it takes for some people to die. My body was like the ancient Japanese samurai fighters; If a samurai knows he is going to die in battle or to avoid capture (among other reasons), then, by law, he will go out in the most agonizing way possible. It is the practice of ritual suicide called 'seppuku', and it includes ripping out your own guts and then being beheaded. Of course I could have used drugs, but I was as proud and as stubborn as an ass and I didn't want to be drugged up on pain medication. I thought it was cowardly. Did I not mention that samurai didn't use morphine? Hell, they saved being beheaded for last.

Second off; I know it is clichéd, but you don't know what it is like to be me. I'm not being 'emo' (as my neighbor's teenager would so wittingly call it) and I'm not being moody. I'm being bluntly honest. Unless the grim reaper (doctor, shmoctor) has told you that no, you would not live to meet your child and that your death would probably be painful and unless you have almost purposely driven your wife into the arms of your best friend because you're just so damn angry, then you will probably never 'get it.'

My wife. My poor wife. She knew what I was going to ask her to do before I even opened my mouth, and she cried and begged me not to. I took her hand in mine and told her what I already knew; I was going to die today. It was going to be painful. It was only a few hours away. Let me die with a little dignity.

Really, I didn't have to convince her. She would do it, not because she was a pushover (she really wasn't), and not because she loved me (she really did), but because she respected me. It's so much harder to come by than the other two, but she had it for me and I had it for her. It was a beautiful thing.

It was as though I had finally understood at least a half of the plan that was written out for me. Of course I fell in love with a medical student. Of course I did. Of course she knew exactly how much drugs it would take to overdose me. Of course at that point, my body was too weak to react in any way other than death. Of course no sane doctor would bother to do an autopsy on a man who practically died the day he was scheduled to. Of course. Of course. Of course.

And of course I'm looking down at my wife, my strong, beautiful, wife and my sweet, sweet, daughter with such a big future and so much potential, and my brother, who, after all these years, finally seems to have gotten it right, and my tombstone. What can I say? I guess the three of them were meant to be.

You know, wedding rings are, in general, a paradox. On one hand, you have the gold which is one of the weakest minerals on this Earth. And on the other hand, you have the diamond, which is one of the strongest minerals on this Earth. Diamonds are the cockroaches of jewelry. You can dip them into molten lava; subject them to scorching 2,000 degree temperatures; send them to the sun; but they won't melt. They'll burn, because everything can get hurt, but they will not die. Chemo cannot kill it. Cancer cannot kill it. Death cannot kill it. They will burn, but they will never catch fire. I will die, but I will never really be dead.

It is very typical that along with being a Geology minor, I was also an English major, so I also know it to be true that nothing gold can stay. The practically conflicting fields of study have left me with a mathematical equation, which, although unexpected, has proved to be very useful.

Combine something everlasting with something that is destined to die and what do you get? Well, my friend, that would be a marriage.