AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Even though he'd sent everyone working with him on break, Merle was still working. It felt good to work. It felt cleansing, to Merle, in a way that he couldn't explain, especially given that he was only beginning to understand it himself. When he was working, he wasn't drinking. He wasn't thinking about drugs—which he'd mostly given up with the exception of some weed that occasionally changed hands among the citizens of Woodbury. When he stopped working? That's when he felt like he needed the bottle and, he'd learned, that nearly every time he gave into it, he had too damned much. He lacked the off-switch that some people seemed to have. He didn't have enough until he blacked out and the thoughts just stopped coming.
The thoughts came when he worked, too, but they were easier to toss away like the damaged nails that could only be salvaged by dropping them into the large metal cans where, someday, they hoped to gather them up and melt them down for making other things—but that was another project, for another time.
Merle could think about those projects, though. He could think about the future when he worked, because he felt like he was making progress—no matter how slow—toward something. When he stopped working, that was when the voices in his head came out to play; they were the ones that called him worthless, good-for-nothing, and everything else in the book, and that told him that his life was nothing but a big ass failure and would never get any better.
So, Merle worked as much as he could, whenever he could, and while the others took a break together, he kept working.
He only stopped when the truck came driving up, practically to what would eventually be the front porch steps of his new house. The frame of the house, for now, was protected under a large tent that he'd found and set up. That way, he didn't have to worry about it as he slowly made progress.
"You gonna drive through the damned front door?" Merle yelled out, putting his hammer down, dusting himself off, and making his way out of the space and toward Alice.
She smiled at him.
"This is starting to look really good," she said. "Starting to really look like a house."
"Gonna be the nicest fuckin' house you ever seen in your whole fuckin' life," Merle said. "You mark my damn words. Everything she needs. Fireplace in the livin' room and kitchen'll share the same chimney. Even if the damned grid fails, we'll still have heat and be able to cook without havin' to go outside."
"It's bigger than I thought it would be," Alice said, shading her eyes from the sun with her hand and examining the partially built structure. Merle had a tent set up nearby, but sometimes he dragged his sleeping bag into the structure to sleep so that he could imagine what it would be like when the house was done and Andrea was there to make it a fully official home.
"Put in a couple extra rooms. Just in case. We been talkin' about finally makin' a family and shit. She wanted me to be clean and…fuckin' hell, I'm about as clean as my ass is ever gonna be."
Alice smiled to herself and nodded her head.
"You're doing great with recovery," Alice said. "A fucking champ. She's gonna love this, Merle, when she sees it."
Merle's stomach did the uncomfortable flip-flop thing that, if he'd eaten anything recently, probably would have made him nauseous.
"But you come here to tell me she ain't seein' it no damn time soon," Merle said. "That group from the accident they come up—dead or woke up?"
"A little of both," Alice said.
"Fuckin' hell, Al. Ain't that what the fuck we keep your ass alive for? To keep other fuckin' people alive? What the hell you good for if you can't fuckin' do that?" Alice didn't flinch. Merle frowned at her. She had learned, at the very least, not to take shit personally, and he appreciated that. "Son of a bitch—you know I ain't meant it."
"I know," she said. "The blonde didn't die. I got her to come around, finally. But…she's not Andrea. I'm sorry, Merle."
"You sure?" Merle asked. "I could come see her. See if she's got amnesia or…somethin'. Rhodes said she fit the description."
"She's blonde," Alice said. "Green-blue eyes. About the right height and weight, from what you described, but she's not Andrea. She remembers who she is. I even told her that you—Merle Dixon—were here. That—if she was scared or anything else, she could tell us if she was Andrea. I told her what you were doing out here. I told her I'd bring her out here to you. She's not Andrea, but she did say that…she thought Andrea was a very lucky woman, and she hopes you find her."
Merle felt gutted. He pulled a cigarette pack from his pocket, shook a cigarette loose, and took the lighter into his hand as soon as the pack was returned to his pocket. Alice stepped forward and, before he could bother trying to light it, she flicked the lighter and touched the flame to the cigarette's tip. Merle grunted his thanks to her as she returned the lighter to his shirt pocket.
"Take one if you want it," Merle said. She thanked him and helped herself to a cigarette, returning everything to his pocket again. "When Rhodes told me they found her and them others…"
"I know," Alice said. "I got my hopes up, too. The best fucking thing we could've done was had you come straight to Woodbury and ID her right off the bat."
"I wanted to work on the house," Merle said. He shrugged his shoulders. "I guess—really? I wanted a couple damn days of believin' that she was on her way here just as soon as you patched her up."
"Hey—I wanted to believe that shit, too, Merle," Alice offered. "But—it doesn't mean anything. We found one lost blonde out there in need of some help. We'll find some others. Eventually? One of them is bound to be her."
Merle nodded. It was the best he could do in the way of offering thanks for the comfort that Alice was trying to give him.
"Appreciate you comin' out here to…let me know it weren't her."
"I came for another reason, too, Merle," Alice said. He raised his eyebrows at her in question. "The Governor sent me to tell you we could use you back at Woodbury for a job. Robinson and the others could use some backup."
"Somethin' goin' on?" Merle asked.
"You know I don't ask because I don't want to know," Alice said. "All I know is that there was another group found, but Robinson thinks there might be trouble. Maybe they even had something to do with that accident."
Merle nodded. He already knew about the groups that sometimes threatened to cause trouble to Woodbury or any of its citizens.
"Yeah—fine. I'll come, but I'm comin' back out here as soon as the job's done."
"I don't think anyone would argue with that," Alice said. "Besides—you can check out the blonde while you're there. Just in case you see something that gets your interest?"
"Alice," Merle said, putting enough warning behind her name that she could hear it. She smiled and laughed to herself.
"You can at least make sure that—she doesn't have amnesia, Merle. You'll rest better if you know for yourself."
"I'll rest better when we fuckin' find her," Merle said. "Lemme grab some shit outta my tent. I'll ride back with you."
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"Well—come on in," Jo said. "Don't just—hang around the door."
"I'm sorry," Andrea said, stepping into the doorway and fully revealing herself.
"That floor board's creaked for thirty years at least," Jo said with a laugh. "Come on—come in. Don't just hang around the door."
There was a living room, but there was also a little "den" or sitting room in the house. It was much smaller than the living room and, in Andrea's opinion, it was much cozier. It was also more packed with stuff, and it was clear that it had been the center of life more than the more formal room. At this moment, late in the evening, Hershel was in there with his wife and their youngest daughter.
"I didn't mean to interrupt your family time," Andrea said. "I was just heading out to the tents after my shower and…I heard the singing."
Hershel smiled, clearly pleased that someone had noticed the singing, and Andrea's stomach twisted with the relief that he didn't look angry. He reached and patted Beth's shoulder where the girl sat on her knees on the floor between her parents who sat on the well-worn sofa.
"Our Bethie sometimes sings for us in the evening," Hershel said.
"I can sing all the songs that Daddy loves," Beth offered. She smiled affectionately at her father. "He always says he'd rather hear me than his records."
The old record player and the small bookshelf packed with records that sat in the corner of the room suggested that the old man was an aficionado of music—or, at least, of the music that he enjoyed.
"You have a beautiful voice," Andrea offered. The girl's voice wasn't entirely to her tastes, but that didn't matter. Sometimes, it was better just to give a compliment, and Andrea knew that. Beth beamed with the words, and Hershel and Jo both looked pleased with them, too. "I didn't mean to interrupt the song, really. I only wanted to listen." She felt her face grow warm and her eyes prickled at the thought. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably again. "That was, actually, a song my husband—Merle—used to play for me after it came out. It sort of became one of our songs."
"It's kind of a melancholy song for an anthem of marriage, isn't it?" Jo asked.
Andrea laughed to herself.
"Not if…maybe not if you knew my husband," Andrea said. "I guess…it appealed to him when he heard it. My husband was no saint."
"Men seldom are, Honey," Jo said laughing. Hershel laughed, too, and reached to pat Jo with some affection.
"Women, either," he said. "If we're being honest."
"I think Merle liked the song because it was, you know…just a way to say 'hold on,' no matter what," Andrea said. Her chest was tight and her throat ached. She meant to hold back the warm the tears that escaped, but she couldn't quite keep them all under control. She brushed away the few that got out of hand, and Hershel offered her a handkerchief from his pocket to go with the sympathetic look that Jo gave her—a look that made the tears come just a little faster than before. Andrea thanked Hershel for the handkerchief and he waved her toward an empty chair. She sat, deciding against arguing with him for the moment. "I loved my husband, very much," Andrea said.
"I don't think there's anyone here who would dispute that," Hershel said, his voice softer than normal.
"I guess—I've just been thinking about the fact that…he was doing better. You know? Before all of this. He still had relapses. He was an addict, and…sometimes it got the best of him. But he was doing better. We were finally going to try to start a family. I thought that would help him stay clean the rest of the time. Now I'm just wishing I hadn't been so hard-headed. I wish we'd started earlier. Merle would have—I think Merle would have wanted to…know, at least…and now…" Andrea stopped and shrugged. She had that feeling that she sometimes got when she was talking too much, and she knew she was, but she couldn't seem to stop it. She had things she needed to say. She needed to get them out. And these people were looking at her with such kindness that she wanted to say them before the kindness ran out—before it felt like all the kindness in the whole damned world ran out. "I just don't want anything to happen. I don't want to lose…what I have left of Merle. I'm sorry. You were having a nice evening and I just…ruined it."
"You haven't ruined anything," Jo said quickly and dismissively. "Sometimes we all…need. And that's all there is to it."
"You seem healthy," Hershel said. "If it puts your mind at ease. There doesn't appear to be any obvious reason for you to worry."
"It does, actually," Andrea said, feeling a little of her insides seeming to untangle themselves.
"Of course you're healthy," Jo said. "And there's nothing to worry about. And I'll tell you the truth—farm life? It's good for building strong mothers and babies. The fresh air. Good food. The good exercise. You'll build up your strength, and that'll help in getting your little one here, too. It'll make the delivery and everything go more smoothly. And afterward. You won't be as tired, either."
Andrea smiled at her.
"Does that mean y'all are dedicated to letting us stay here that long?" Andrea asked.
Hershel hummed.
"Your husband has good taste in music," he said. "And—it's pretty clear to me that he did well in choosing a woman to stand by him. I wouldn't want to meet a man like that and tell him that I didn't give you shelter until your child was born and…ready to go wherever it is you're going."
Andrea smiled. She felt warmth flood her chest and belly. Hershel's expression and tone of voice said more than his words.
"We're grateful," she said. "I just—want you to know that. My family and I? We're…so grateful."
"You should go on to bed," Hershel said. "That little one's going to start to make you more tired than you realize. You'll need your rest, and the cows won't tolerate tardiness. It messes up their milk production, and we don't need that…especially not when I'll expect you to be drinking some of that milk to help your little one grow."
Andrea wiped at her face again. She couldn't help but smile to herself at Hershel's words.
"Yes sir," she said, standing up. "I'll—wash this for you."
"Everything gets washed," Hershel said, clearly not sure what else to say.
"Wait. Before you go," Jo said, "sit just a minute more. Relax a few minutes here with us. Let Beth sing you the song. We'd all like to hear it again—if you would."
Andrea sat down.
"If it's no trouble, I'd love to hear it again."