February 8, 2015
St. Charlotte Community Church
Seattle, Washington

The funeral is unreal. I'm too drained for it to feel like a dream, too numb to consider it a nightmare. Everything about Chloe had been loud and vibrant and alive, but as I stare up at Chloe's closed coffin, I can barely remember what any of those feel like.

Holding it in a church seems pointless. Chloe had never put much stock in religion. Faith had been far more important to Joyce than it had for her daughter, and the only time I'd ever imagined Chloe in a church at all was when I pictured the day the two of us would stand up and swear to spend the rest of our lives together.

Now that day is never going to come.

Sitting in the front row, I'm only half listening to the pastor speak. Most of my attention is focused on a stray cobweb dancing in the sunlight that streams in through the church's stained-glass windows. It had drifted down from the rafters earlier in the service, catching on a framed picture of Chloe. As the man at the pulpit drones on about Chloe's strength and bravery, as if he knew anything at all about her, I'm almost transfixed by the way the strand of spider's silk sways in some barely present breeze.

For a moment I consider getting up to brush it away, then crying some more, and then ripping the still-beating heart from my own chest and offering it up to whatever gods might be listening, as though that might somehow convince them to give Chloe back to me.

I don't do any of these. I just sit there, my insides feeling like they've been filled with lead.

The day Chloe had died, I'd cried and raged and thrown things like an angry little kid. Sitting in the church now, I just feel used up, like I just don't have it in me to feel anything anymore.

It's not until my mom put a gentle hand on my shoulder that I realize that the pastor has finished talking. All eyes are on me, and I realize that I'm probably expected to say something. I try to stand, but the thought of having to walk past the coffin sets my knees shaking. For a second, I'm absolutely certain that if I get too close to it, I'll break down entirely. So, again, I do nothing. I stay rooted in place, only loosely aware of Dad going up to briefly speak to Pastor What's-His-Name as I continue to stare at Chloe's photo.

Her smile is so beautiful.

It isn't fair.

Eventually the ceremony ends, and I let my parents lead me to the church entrance. I stand there and accept the condolences of each person that passes by. Most of them feel like hollow platitudes, especially the ones coming from people who'd barely known her. They're just saying what they think they ought to say. I nod and thank them, silently wishing they'd stop wasting my air with their bullshit.

Other people, though, say things that remind me that I'm not the only one grieving.

The mechanics from the garage Chloe had worked at – at least, until she was too sick to work at all – pass by one at a time. Most of the men have genuine tears in their eyes as they pay their respects, and I acknowledge each of them with as much energy as I can muster. I even manage to remember most of their names.

Stephanie Gingrich is a surprise. I knew she'd gotten an invitation to the funeral, but I didn't think she'd actually make the trip all the way from Colorado. She doesn't seem to know what to say to me, and I guess I can't really blame her. We'd gotten along well enough when she'd still lived in Seattle, but she was always Chloe's friend more than mine. But she's kind and sympathetic, and even if she and I were never that close, I know she's going to miss having Chloe in her life.

If there's anyone taking this as hard as I am, it's David; he can barely look me in the eye as we're talking. He and Chloe had worked so hard to repair their relationship after he'd moved out to Arizona. He'd made time at least once a week to call and check up on her, and eventually she'd actually begun looking forward to their conversations. She said that she was pretty sure he'd cried a little the day she'd finally called him 'her old man'. It was as close to calling him 'dad' as she ever got.

I don't know what to say either, so I just step forward and wrap my arms around his shoulders. He briefly accepts the gesture before stepping back, quietly excusing himself as he wipes the tears from his eyes.

It's not until the last attendee has left that I go back inside. I follow the aisle to the front and stand next to the casket, only vaguely aware of my parents standing behind me.

Reaching out, I brush my fingertips over the casket's smooth white surface. I feel my throat tighten as a nauseating sense of awareness wash over me. I'd known that the casket was Chloe's, but I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the horrifying truth that she's actually inside it.

Chloe's in this box...

She died and they sealed her inside...

They're going to drop it in a hole and cover it with dirt and everyone is going to pretend like this is all over and we should all just move on and...

and...

...I have to get out of here.

My feet are already moving as I glance back to my parents. "I...I need a few minutes alone."

I don't wait for them to respond before dashing out. I find a quiet room in a secluded corner of the church and barrel through the door with so much force that I don't even realize someone is already there. I'm standing at a small window overlooking the alley behind the building, alternating between gulping back deep lungfuls of air and choking on my own sobs, when they speak.

"Are you okay?"

I spin around to find Victoria Chase, of all people. She looks like she isn't sure whether to leave or keep talking, and for a second I'm actually speechless. I didn't even realize she been invited to the funeral. That said, there could have been a full-grown elephant in the church and I might not have noticed. "I...w-what?"

"Yeah, I guess that's a pretty stupid question right now." She frowns a little. "I, uh, just needed to make a call, but..." She fidgets with the phone in her hands, glancing to the door. "Should I go?"

I haven't seen Victoria in person since Arcadia Bay, even though she's been right here in Seattle. I never even thought about reaching out to her. I find myself feeling like a bit of an asshole for that.

She seems different from the way I remember. Her blonde hair is longer now, but not by a lot. Her features are still as sharp and irritatingly flawless as they are in my memory. Still, there's a brittleness to her now that wasn't there before, like she's still recovering from an injury; it's not hard to imagine why.

"No. It's fine." I try to sound like I mean it but it's hard to keep my voice steady. "I'm fine."

I'm sure I look completely insane, all wide eyes and streaked makeup. Somehow my mom convinced me to wear a token amount today, and my eyes sting a little as it mixes with my tears. I turn away, embarrassed. I expect to hear Victoria's retreating footsteps, but out of the corner of my eye, I see her still lingering by the door.

"I'm fine," I say again, as though repeating it enough times might make it true.

"You know, it's okay not to be." A second later, she adds, "Fine, I mean. You don't have to be fine."

I hear her shuffle her feet awkwardly when I don't respond.

"I'm sorry about Chloe," she tries.

"Yeah, everyone's so sorry," I mutter darkly. A heartbeat later I regret the words. "Uh...I didn't mean that to sound so..."

"I know," she interrupts, not unkindly. "I am, though, for what it's worth. She was...one of a kind."

I know a hedge when I hear one, but I can't really blame Victoria for not having something nicer to say. She and Chloe had already disliked each other before I returned to Arcadia Bay. Not even the storm could change that.

"Thanks." Looking down at my hands, I add, "I think you're the first person who hasn't just tried to make me feel better."

"Did you want me to?"

"No. It's different, but...I don't know...refreshing, I guess."

"That's fair. I mean, you're the only one who gets to decide how you feel."

I almost smile. "That's deep."

"Don't be too impressed. I stole it from my therapist," she shrugs. "But for how much she charges, she damned well better be insightful."

"You have any other words of wisdom?" I try to make it sound like a joke, but part of me really hopes that she'll know the exact thing to say to make the pain go away.

She sighs, as though she can hear my thoughts, and shakes her head. "Sorry. I wish I had some fix-all advice I could pass on, but I don't."

"Some help you are," I mutter, and she actually flinches a little. Looking away, I take a low and shaky breath. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."

"It's alright," she responds shortly, waving my apology away. After a moment's hesitation, she pulls a business card from her purse and holds it out; the cream-colored paper is embossed with her name, and the information for the 'Chase Space' art gallery. "If you ever...I dunno...feel like talking, I guess."

"Oh." I accept the card, staring at it for a second before slipping it into my pocket. "Thank you."

Sensing the conversation is over, Victoria offers me one last slightly stilted smile and makes her exit. Looking around the now-empty room, I briefly consider breaking down in tears again, then go to meet my parents outside.

~o~

[5 Feb, 2015]

Kristen: I understand if you need time right now, but I'm always here if you need me.

[8 Feb, 2015]

Kristen: Hey. Me and Nando saw you at the funeral today, but you didn't look like you were up to talking to anyone.

Kristen: Just wanted to say that we're ready when you are.

[11 Feb, 2015]

Kristen: Hey, Max. Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you doing?

[15 Feb, 2015]

Kristen: So I called your mom and she said you're fine, but I didn't really like the way she said fine.

Kristen: I'm not trying to be pushy, but could you give me a call as soon as you're feeling up to it?

[19 Feb, 2015]

Kristen: Okay, I can take a hint.

Kristen: But I'm still here, Max. Whenever you need me.

~o~

March 4, 2015
Caulfield Residence
Seattle, Washington

I'm surprised, in an absent sort of way, that nearly a month goes by before my parents really start bugging me to do something other than lay in bed. Not surprised enough to actually do it, but still surprised. I'm fine where I am. I'm not exactly happy, but I've managed to find some semblance of peace under the bedsheets, my face pressed into a pillow that I've convinced myself still smells like Chloe's hair.

But mom and dad are nothing if not persistent, and once again I'm pulled from the sleepy haze I spend most of my time in by a gentle knock on my bedroom door. My mom's soft voice follows a few seconds later. "Max? Are you awake?"

I don't bother to reply. I have a feeling it's a rhetorical question, anyway.

Mom tentatively steps into the room, and I recognize the disappointed sound she makes at finding me still in bed. "It's past noon, sweetheart."

"So?"

"So you should probably get out of bed."

"Why?"

She looks surprised; this is a lot more conversation than she usually gets out of me. "You could try getting out of the house? Some fresh air will be good for you."

"It's raining."

"It's Seattle," she counters with a fragile smile. "Eventually you'll need to rejoin the world."

"Fuck the world."

"Language." Her voice is scolding, as if I were nine years old rather than nineteen. As if I give the slightest shit about my fucking language. "Max, we're not just going to let you waste away in here."

"Then fuck you, too." I lift the blanket back over my head.

I'm not entirely sure whether I mean it, or if I'm just trying to provoke her. Either way, I don't have to be looking at her to picture the look of shock and anger on her face. Just a couple of months ago, I would never have talked to her like that. I'm certain that she wants to call me out on it, too, but she doesn't.

Let it never be said that Vanessa Caulfield doesn't know when to pick her battles.

"It's not healthy to stay cooped up like this, sweetheart," she insists, only the slightest hint of tension in her voice. "Why don't you try calling your friends? They all miss you."

I know she means well, but talking to them will just remind me of Chloe. But then, everything reminds me of Chloe. "Pass."

"Maybe just a walk down to the park, then?" she presses, sitting on the edge of the bed and placing a hand on my shoulder. I hate that I actually find it a little comforting.

If I can't bully her into leaving me alone, maybe guilt will work instead. "Mom, I don't..."

"Please, Max," she interrupts. "Will you go out long enough for me to do a load of laundry, at least?"

I reluctantly lower the blanket to look at her, finding only genuine concern in her eyes. And as much as I hate admitting it, the bedsheets are a long way from fresh smelling. "I'm not going to see anyone."

"You don't have to."

"...fine. I'll go for a fucking walk."

If my language bothers her again, it doesn't show. "I'm glad to hear that, sweetheart. I'll wait downstairs. Just let me know when you leave, okay?"

"Whatever," I mutter, watching her walk out of the room. Hauling myself out of bed with a disgruntled groan, I very briefly consider taking a shower but dismiss the idea just as quickly. Too much effort.

I glance out the window to gauge the weather, and even though the light drizzle that's been falling all morning could barely be called rain, it's wet enough that I can't get away with just throwing a coat over my pajamas. A brief hunt for some clean – or close enough to clean - clothes turns up a pair of jeans, some acceptable-enough underwear, and a concert t-shirt for a band called Firewalk that I don't think I've ever seen live.

As I sniff the t-shirt and decide it's fresh enough to wear, I wonder how long I'll to be out to get Mom off my back for a while. Probably a while, maybe an hour or two. I can get pretty far in an hour. After Chloe sold her truck to help with whatever our insurance didn't cover (for the whopping $500 that got her) we both did plenty of walking. I'd be able to make it all the way to the hospital if I walked that long, not that I have the slightest fucking reason to...

That's when a thought floats to the surface of my mind. Or rather, a question. A question that's been in the back of my head for a while. I haven't asked it to anyone. I haven't even spoken it aloud. I'm a little scared of it, if I'm being honest, and possibly even more scared of what the answer might be. I'll never get an answer unless I ask, though, and maybe finally knowing will help. At the very least, it gives me somewhere to actually go. The alternative is just circling the block until I think Mom will be satisfied.

Yes. This is a plan. This is a thing that might (but probably won't) help me feel better.

God knows I couldn't feel any worse.

~o~

Seattle Cancer Care Alliance - UW Medical Center
Seattle, Washington

The halls are familiar, as are many of the faces I see. They mostly smiled at me when Chloe was still alive, probably trying to pass on some hope or good cheer in a place where both were sometimes in short supply. Now they look at me in surprise, blinking owlishly before glancing away.

They're acting like I'm a ghost or something. I scowl as a passing orderly (who I know is named Dustin, because we've actually met) averts his eyes, then catch a look at my reflection in the window behind him. Turns out I just look about as shitty as I feel.

It doesn't take me long to find who I'm looking for. Standing at one of the nurse's stations, he's pouring over a stack of patient charts when I come up behind him. I cough loudly enough to get his attention and although he looks as surprised as anyone else to see me, there's still compassion in his eyes. "Max? What are you doing here?"

"Hi, Doctor Morris." I try for a smile. Judging from his expression, I don't quite pull it off. "Good to see you."

He gives me a once over and that suggests that I might actually look worse than I feel; it's not a comforting thought. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." It's an obvious lie, but he doesn't comment on it. "Do you have a minute?"

He glances at the stack of charts, then down at his wristwatch. "I suppose so. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to ask you something. If I had..." I pause, then start over. "If we'd known about Chloe's cancer early enough..."

"...could we have saved her?" Morris finishes, looking at me sadly. His expression makes me feel pitied, and for the span of a heartbeat I hate him for it.

"I guess you hear that a lot."

"I do," he admits. "What brought this on?"

I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. "It's just something that's been rattling around in my head."

"Hm." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "The short answer is yes, of course, but only because early is a relative term. Anything is possible if you can wind the clock back far enough."

"If only."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing." I take a moment to consider my next words. "I guess I just want to know if I could have done anything. If we'd known back when we reconnected in 2013, would it have been early enough?"

"You don't want to go down that road, Max," Morris says, shaking his head. "What happened to Chloe wasn't your fault and dwelling on what-ifs isn't going to bring her back."

"I just want to know if this was always where we were headed."

"If she'd stopped smoking in October of 2013 and started treatment right away?" he confirms. I nod and he offers me a slow shrug. "It certainly would've improved her odds."

"By how much?"

"I couldn't say for sure." Pulling off his glasses, he rubs his eyes tiredly. "You need to understand that every patient is different. There are hundreds of factors to take into accou-"

"Please. I just need to know if she'd be alive today." I didn't mean to say need instead of want, but I can immediately tell that he noticed. He doesn't comment on that, either.

"I really can't say for sure," he insists, then lets out a faint sigh. "But in my personal opinion? Yes, I think she probably would be."