Happy mother's day. And stay safe inside.

Chapter 22

Lucas is sitting, crosslegged in bed by himself. It's late, close to ten. He's been reading Le rouge et le noir in the original french, stretching his few years of french classes nearly to the breaking point. Keeping his mind busy. He is stalled by a word: 'Sacrilege'. According to his dictionary, 'a violation or misuse of something that is deemed sacred. Blasphemy'. Odd concept, Lucas muses. He wonders what is to be called 'sacred'in this nearly faithless, secular world. A chill runs down his spine with his obvious answer: Family. Family is sacred. He shakes his head . Mother and daughter. Brother and brother. Blasphemy by bullet. He nearly laughs, an edge of hysteria creeping over him.

He looks around. Their bed, unmade. Clothes strewn about carelessly. Lucas himself, unkempt, barely holding it together for the sake of his girls. One is worried sick, a haunted look in her eyes he hasn't seen in years. The other, clingy and teary, her little world hopelessly shattered. And her. His goddess. Climbed inside herself and shut the door, holding grimly onto her phony normalcy. Keeping everybody at arms length. Lucas gets it, more than he can easily express. But that doesn't help. As long as she keeps him shut on the outside, all he can do is worry, helplessly.

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

She gets up, a little stiff. Curtsies at the headstone, an odd gesture that she learned from a middle school play. "Thank you, Uncle Keith. It's been..." The sentence trails off, as she doesn't really know what to say.

It's rage, mostly. At herself and at her stupid, stupid dead mother. Something she finds hard to express, even to a cold headstone.

She thinks back... way back. Her father, stark unfeeling neglect hidden by politeness and phony generosity. Victoria. It took Brooke a long time to figure it out. She didn't want a daughter. She hated the mere idea of it. Her way of expressing it, always sharp, coldly critical, harsh. Like all young children, Brooke yearned for love, for approval. Specially from her. She never got it. Until a little while ago, she believed it was because there was something wrong with her.

Later, Victoria changed. Resentment turned into jealousy. Brooke's endless energy and easy charm captivated everybody. Except... Sour, defensive, hostile Victoria took it as a personal affront. As if being liked was a kind of weakness. Older Brooke didn't yearn so much for affection. She'd given up. But she did yearn for respect. She never got that either.

By defeating her mother at her own game, and giving her a few years to think about it, Brooke thought Victoria might begin to see...

But she didn't. Bitter laugh. Brooke was able to kill her because, in Victoria's silly arrogance, she still underestimated her. Idiot. If, instead of trying to kidnap Emily at gunpoint she had just asked for money...

In the hidden pits of her heart, Brooke felt... no, she wished there would be some kind acknowledgment, some kind of reckoning, some kind of closure. One bullet. That's all the closure she would ever get.

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

Lucas sets the book aside when he hears the soft steps outside his bedroom. He watches silently, as Brooke gets in, shoes in her hand. She avoids his eyes and speaks in a flat tone. "I need a shower."

Her clothes are caked with dirt and grass. "Yup," Lucas replies.

She tries to sound casual. "You can join me, if you want." There is no invitation in her tone.

Lucas lets the silence stretch between them. "No, thanks." It's the first time he ever turns down this invitation.

"Suit yourself." She turns her back to him and heads to the ensuite.

Lucas gets up and stops by the bathroom's doorway. Brooke is naked, opening the shower stall. Dead caramel eyes meet icy blue ones. "Don't forget the press conference tomorrow."

Sarcastic reply. "I won't. Thank you for reminding me."

He decides he is not up for sharing a bed with her. There's a nice stuffed chair next to Emily's crib which will suit for one night. "I'll be in Emily's room."

The noise of the shower cover the soft click of their bedroom door when he closes it behind him.

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

Lucas parks in front of his old house, walks to the front door and knocks. Peyton answers after a while, Emily in her arms and Sawyer right behind her. Peyton is barefoot, hair tied in a messy bun, her pretty legs on display below jeans shorts and a loose stained wifebeater. She would be quite sexy, if it wasn't for the tired set of her shoulders and the sadness in her eyes. Emily jumps at Lucas with a little scream. "Daddy!"

He grabs his little girl, nuzzling her briefly as he walks in, gets a little peck from Peyton and caresses Sawyer's light brown curls. She is almost one year older than Emily, born to Peyton after a horribly difficult and dangerous pregnancy. "Hi uncle Lucas."

Lucas throws himself at the living room couch, keeping Emily close. He replies to Sawyer. "Hi, pumpkin." He looks at Peyton, an unspoken question on his face.

"Nora and Mark are at the supermarket." It's a typical Tree Hill Summer afternoon, hot, muggy. Bright blue sky, wispy clouds and very little wind. "Tea?"

Lucas nods at Peyton and pokes at Emily's belly, eliciting a little giggle. "Stop, daddy!"

"Missed ya, Princess."

She gives her father a kiss. "Missed ya too, daddy." She wiggles to be let down. Sawyer grabs Emily's

hand and pulls her away, back to whatever its was they were doing before he arrived.

Peyton comes back with a tall, sweaty glass of tea and a coaster. She sits across him, crosses her legs and gives Lucas a concerned look. "So, how was it?"

"Pure torture." Lucas shakes his head. "Brooke read a statement and we answered questions for about an hour. I think we managed to satisfy the vultures and not to make things worse."

She shrugs. "Good, I guess..."

It's been two weeks. The carefully prepared interview is the last of a long, excruciating series of obligations. Lucas looks at the two little girls, now sitting on the floor, playing with some plastic figures. "Thank you for the babysitting."

"You know it's nothing." Peyton turns around and peeks at the two girls. "They get along beautifully."

Lucas nods and sets the empty glass on the coaster. He lays his elbows on his knees and rubs his face with both his hands, in a defeated gesture.

"How's Brooke?" Peyton asks.

"About the same." He sighs. Peyton is her oldest friend, after all. "She's hiding herself, and I'm giving her space."

Peyton snorts. "That's typical. From both of you."

"Should I be doing anything different?" If there is anything, he can't see it.

"I don't know... maybe." Peyton glances at the two girls playing. "What about Emily?"

"She misses her mom."

"Of course she does." Peyton crosses her arms and frowns. "Maybe you should get in her face about it."

Lucas gives Peyton a sharp stare and nearly laughs. "That would be typical you."

"Fine!" Her green eyes flash in annoyance. Peyton looks her best when angry, something that is not lost in Lucas. "Hide in a book, then!"

Lucas smirks and gets up. "I think I'll be going."

She deflates, giving him an odd look and speaking in a sad, affectionate tone. "All right, Luke. Give it time. I'm sure things will turn around."

"I'm sure they will." He looks into her eyes. "Thank you."

She gets up, stands close and kisses his cheek. "We're here for you, you know?"

He collects Emily's stuff and takes his leave, before Peyton's sexy legs begin to give him ideas. He chuckles. Peyton is not really a problem. His mind wanders to his wife and he feels sadness and worry try to overwhelm him. He shakes his head. He will just focus on his daughters for now. It's what he can do.

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o

This is it. Her limit. These two weeks, the police, the reporters, the lawyers... and her family. She needs to get away. Before she damages things permanently. She thinks of her daughter, looking at her. Her eyes, huge, green, teary, looking for someone who is not there anymore. It's best to leave. Lucas will take care of her. Lucas...

Brooke packs a small suitcase. She carries it down the stairs, knowing she is not strong enough to face Lucas. His disapproval. His expectations. Unfortunately, she ends up face-to-face with her. Sam. Her daughter, legally, but, in her mind, a stepdaughter. And a friend. Brooke looks at the scowl on her face. Maybe an ex-friend.

"You're leaving?" She looks at the suitcase as she speaks. Her tone is incredulous.

Brooke looks down, ashamed. "I have to..."

"Are you coming back?" Brooke nods mutely. Of course she's coming back. "When?"

"I don't know."

"This is stupid." The certainties of youth. Not that she is that much older. Brooke doesn't reply and just walks towards the front door, dragging her suitcase. "What about Emily? What about dad?" She nearly spits the last word.

Brooke whispers as she walks out the door. "I'm sorry..."

Her first stop is the Big Apple. An old friend's condo. Postage-stamp sized, nicely decorated in a diva style, with a poster of the ash-blonde, skeleton-shaped, absent owner in a sexy pose as the centerpiece. The initial plan is to visit her therapist. Instead she spends half an hour staring at a half-full bottle of vodka, like it was a big, hairy spider. Then she runs to a meeting. The meeting room belongs to a small church. Next door, a crowded-looking free clinic, with the usual assortment of urban flotsam in a crowded waiting room. A skinny, white-haired woman with tired eyes works in the reception desk.

"Good afternoon." Brooke begins, politely.

The woman doesn't lift her eyes. She offers Brooke a clipboard with a form and a bitten pen stuck to the clip. "Is this your first time?" A nasal drawl.

"Do you need volunteers?"

The woman lifts her eyes and squints at Brooke. "What, honey?"

"Volunteers." Brooke enunciates slowly. "I'm a third-year medical student."

The woman looks doubtful. She takes Brooke in, trying to figure out what her game is. Finally, she is satisfied with whatever she sees and shrugs. She gives Brooke a visitor's badge and presses a button under her desk, which unlocks a door behind her. "Talk to Lizzy."

"Thanks."

That begins the most intense month of Brooke's life. As a student, she's not allowed to perform procedures unless supervised. They supervise her. The first couple of days. The clinic is understaffed. Afterwards, she is just another one of the staff, quietly trusted to either do the job, or ask for help. She does the job, and asks for help as needed. Quietly observant, pleasant, efficient. She does everything, taking blood, cleaning shit and vomit, calming children in pain and nervous parents, stitching wounds, lanceting boils... Hookers, addicts, street people, gang members, teenage mothers and a lot of hardworking people. The rough side of medicine. Twelve to fourteen hour days, with half-hour meal breaks. Seven days a week. She's never learned so much, so quickly. Every day, she gets back home numb with exhaustion, dragging her aching feet, showers and falls dead in bed. One afternoon, an old man dies while she is trying to take his blood pressure. A stroke, they said. She forgets about her therapist and attends meetings. Her demons, the anger, the confusion, the guilt, all pushed to the back of her head, overwhelmed by the gritty reality in front of her.

The plan was to stay two weeks. After three weeks, she begins to feel a little more balanced. Shock and awe, raw human condition therapy. But she needs to go home. Emily. Lucas. At the end of the fourth week, she finally leaves. A piece of paper, signed by the head of the clinic, attests three hundred and sixty hours of clinical practice, with a glowing review. If she had any remaining doubt about what she wants to do with the rest of her life, it's gone. This is it for her. A small new tattoo of the winged staff with two snakes graces her left lower back, to commemorate the insight. A few weeks later, an anonymous six-figure donation shows up at the clinic.

Her next stop is a small cinderblock house at the end of a dirt road in the the Cherokee reservation. A rusty pick-up truck and a gleaming Harley are parked outside. Brooke knocks and a familiar scowl, caramel eyes in a gorgeous oval face, tiny shorts, torn muscle shirt on a seriously cut shape. "Princess,"

she growls.

"Tee," Brooke smirks back, holding her gaze. "Aren't you inviting me in?" It's piping hot outside and Taylor's air-conditioning is working.

"Depends." Taylor stares and waits.

"Of course I'm going back," Brooke answers the unspoken question.

"Soon." The slight menacing tone is unmistakable. They chose Emily's only godparent well.

Brooke nods. "Soon."

"Come in, then." Taylor gets out of the way and Brooke walks in. "Can I get ya something?"

"A glass of water, please."

Brooke looks around. The room is painted a pale green, with a flat screen TV on one wall, prints of cowboys, martial arts movie posters and an odd ballerina. A large beat-up leather couch, a couple of stuffed chairs and a rough coffee table. To one side, a large unfinished pine bookcase with books, movies and some knickknacks. Homey, and not at all feminine. She sits in one of the chairs, while Taylor hands her a tall glass of icy water and plops herself in the middle of the couch. "What are you doing here?"

Brooke is about to answer when something tickles her mind. She brings out her newly developed bedside manner and asks softly. "How far along are you?"

Taylor startles, sits up and puts a protective hand on her lower abdomen, instantly confirming Brooke's suspicion. "Nine weeks. Quite an eye you've got."

"Professional hazard." Brooke could not have seen it a month before. But she always had an eye for minutiae, and she now knows what to look for. Taylor's fit body and skimpy clothes also help. The precise duration tells Brooke she's already seen a doctor, so she can skip the first question and go straight for the second. "And how are you feeling?"

"A little tired and the girls are tender. Morning sickness kicks my ass, but it leaves me alone after lunch." As Taylor replies, Brooke gets up and performs a cursory exam. Picks up Taylor's hands, turns them around, checks her eyes and takes her pulse. She wishes she could check the blood pressure, and promises herself to start a little doctor's bag soon. Still, there doesn't seem to be anything out of place.

Brooke smiles softly at Taylor. "Accident?"

Taylor shakes her head. "Nah. Stopped contraceptives six months ago."

"The father?"

"Not in the picture." Brooke frowns a little, annoying Taylor. "What? You think I can't handle it?"

Brooke stiffens, a little surprised by the heat of the response. "Hey! I know you can handle anything, all right?" Taylor snorts and Brooke shrugs. "It's just easier with a father."

Taylor smirks and replies sharply. "And with a mother."

Brooke ignores the barb. "Congratulations, then. And we'll be there for you and for your child. You know that."

"You might consider first being there for yours."

Ouch. "Look..."

Taylor's patience runs out. "Why did you come here?"

"Believe it or not, it was on my way."

"Really." Skeptical.

"Does it matter?" Now Taylor shrugs. "I was hoping for some news."

A furious whisper. "Then call your husband." Taylor looks at the guilty look on Brooke's face and relaxes a bit. "He is sad, angry, worried and trying to keep it together for the girls. Emily misses you. Sam is angry and she is trying to support Lucas. And you, could have easily guessed all of this."

"I just want to know..."

Taylor cuts her off. "What is it with you? It's been, what? Six weeks?"

Brooke screams. "I killed my own mother, bitch! How exactly do you get past that?"

They sit, glaring at each other. Silence stretches, until Taylor takes in a deep breath and blows it out slowly through her mouth. "All right, Princess. What's going on with you?"

"At first I was just very, very angry. Mostly at her."

"I'd say that's fair. Then what? You forgave the bitch?"

"No, that's not it."

"Then what?"

"She was not a monster, you know? Not like Dan Scott." Taylor nods, encouraging Brooke to continue. "She was arrogant, selfish and not nearly as smart as she thought she was. She tried to take over my work, so I taught her a lesson. Trapped her. Took everything from her, and got her arrested. A nickel in Club Fed."

"So she came after you for revenge?"

"Yup. And wounded pride. Mostly, I guess. She always believed I am weak and foolish. I wanted to show her different." Brooke laughs, bitterly. "I guess I did."

"So, it was like a family fight that went overboard."

Brooke nods. "And I had the last word."

"Look. You didn't plan a murder. She invaded your home at gunpoint, threatened your family. You were protecting yourself."

"That's what I keep telling myself. Over and over again. But..."

"But what?"

"I had the drop on her. I could have shot her somewhere else. I chose to shoot her in the head. I thought it was safer. I killed her because it was safer. And because I was pissed at her."

"It's easy to complicate things after the fact, Princess. But it still sounds righteous. You don't fuck around with people with a gun."

"You've worked law enforcement."

"Occasionally. Still do sometimes."

"Did you ever kill anyone?"

Taylor looks surprised. "Don't you know about Sam's rescue?"

"Only in really vague terms. They don't like to talk about it."

"Figures." Taylor pauses a bit. "Both Lucas and I killed that day. He took it really hard."

"And you didn't?"

"It wasn't the first time. Nor the last.. She shrugs apologetically. "I was born thick skinned, I guess." She touches her own belly and continues in a sad tone. "What that says about me as a mother..."

"Stop it! You're going to be a great mother. No. You are a great mother."

Taylor smirks. "We'll see. But we were talking about you."

"Doctors make hard decisions all the time. You always fight hard to save a life, or a limb, or whatever. There's more to it than playing it safe." She breathes in and out. "I made a mistake."

Brooke looks down, distraught. Taylor stares at Brooke for a long time. "All right. Maybe you did. Now what?"

"Now I have to live with myself."