AN: Here's another chapter. It's one from Carol's perspective. There are a few more to go in this story. Four more if I've planned accurately.
I'm offering a trigger warning for discussion of infant/child mortality. It's not terribly graphic, but there's enough there that I'd like to offer the warning for anyone who might feel particularly triggered by it.
Also, there's an AN at the end about how I write Michonne's back story, but suffice it to say that I go more with the comics than with the show for that.
I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Carol almost felt a little foolish, lingering back three steps from Michonne at the door of her house—the place she called home—but she hadn't quite figured out how to breach the topic with the woman yet. She was working, still, on finding the words that she felt most appropriate to use.
"So—what's in there?" Michonne asked, her voice low, barely above a whisper. She peeked into Carol's window like she was assessing the situation and Carol felt even more foolish. Michonne's hand was wrapped around her katana's handle, the blade was slightly exposed as she toyed with it. That was one of the comforting things about Michonne, whether or not she appeared ready, she was always ready to respond to a situation, even if she might not have all the facts yet.
"Please just—go inside?" Carol said.
Michonne looked at her, brow furrowed, and she tried the knob like she expected it to be locked. It wasn't locked, of course, and the door swung open. Michonne never moved her hand from the handle of the katana as she peeked inside the house before she committed to stepping into the door. Carol followed her inside realizing that, without even meaning to do so, maybe she'd managed to make the situation sound a little worse than it was.
Inside the house, the baby was crying out from the nursery. Carol had been gone, if she was guessing correctly, no more than five minutes. Her words to Michonne—she needed her for something at her house—had gotten the woman moving and moving quickly. The slowest part of their approach had been the time spent lingering at the door to assess the danger level.
And now Michonne looked even more baffled than she'd looked outside.
"Baby..." she said. It seemed she was suffering, at the moment, from what had been plaguing Carol. It was an acute inability to put anything into words. Carol nodded at her. "Where did...?"
"Daryl found her," Carol said. "On the run. He found her and—she's crying."
Michonne raised her eyebrows at Carol and visibly sucked in a breath. She glanced around the living area of the house before she settled her eyes back on Carol.
"Pick her up?" She offered.
Carol frowned at her and Michonne immediately looked apologetic.
"I don't think that I understand what's going on here," Michonne offered as something of an apology. "Daryl found a baby on a run and..."
"And in the true nature of every child who brought something home that they were going to take care of? He stepped out to do something for someone—and she's crying," Carol said. She apologized immediately for the words as soon as they finished rolling out of her mouth. Michonne's expression said that she was excused and that she would give her time to get around to saying what she really wanted to say instead of simply saying the first thing that came to her mind. Carol went and sat on the couch. She put her head in her hands and put things together the best that she could. "I told him that I couldn't do this. I told him that I couldn't have her. It's not..."
Carol stopped.
As crazy as it might sound, and she thought it sounded crazy too, she couldn't help but believe that having the baby there was dooming the child to a short and tragic life. Something, somewhere, had clicked into place in the universe that had declared that Carol couldn't and shouldn't be around children. Even though being a mother had been the most wonderful thing in her life, before all of this had happened, the turn of the world had changed things for Carol. She'd lost Sophia. There had been nothing that she could do to save her. She hadn't known to protect Mika, and she hadn't known how to teach her to protect herself. She hadn't know what to do to help Lizzie. Part of her, especially now, believed that the only reason she made it back to Rick with Judith was because she was with Tyreese.
When she'd been carrying Maison, she'd gone to sleep every night fearing that something was going to happen. She was going to lose him. He was going to be stillborn. It wasn't possible for her—after whatever had clicked—to have a healthy baby. Even beyond the fact that, medically, it wasn't a good idea for her at her age, there was so much in the universe that seemed against it. But he'd come and nothing tragic had happened. She'd marveled at the baby, holding him the first time that they put him in her arms, more than she had with Sophia—more than she imagined most mothers even did when they held their newborns—because he was fine. He was perfect.
And she'd thought that maybe, just maybe, things had turned around for her. After all, she was different now than she'd ever been before. She was stronger now than she'd ever been before. She had a network of friends around her and she had happiness with Daryl. And she had a baby boy that, despite whatever odds might have been against him, was absolutely perfect. And every day of his life, she'd marveled at his perfection. She hadn't even minded the frazzled exhaustion that had come with having a newborn.
So she'd felt like she was dying the morning that she'd gone in and she'd realized that his squirming about in the crib had nothing to do with naturally waking up and thinking about requesting a diaper change.
Or maybe she'd just wanted to die. Now she wasn't sure either way.
The only thing she was sure of was the fact that she didn't feel that it could be good for any child to even be in her presence, less likely that it could be good for one to be entrusted to her care. Daryl wanted the child because he wanted a child—because they'd both loved their moments of being parents together with Maison—but he didn't understand the way that she felt. Maybe he couldn't. And he'd brought the girl home, and he'd done a fine job of tending her so far, with the promise that Carol didn't have to even be around her, but he'd stepped out for a moment and the baby was crying.
And it felt like each of her cries was ripping through the tissue in the core of Carol's body.
Something inside her wanted to respond to them, but something else inside her warned it could be the worst thing that she could do for the child.
So she'd done the only thing that she could think to do. She'd gone to get Michonne—another mother who might understand. But she couldn't quite bring herself to admit to Michonne all the thoughts—thoughts that she felt were mad—that were going through her mind. And seeing that she couldn't speak, and maybe understanding without the words, Michonne simply took off her katana, rested it on the floor against the wall, and disappeared into the nursery.
A moment later, there was silence from the room and the cries stopped sending the searing pain through Carol. Something else entirely, instead, caused the aching in her chest.
Michonne stayed in the room for some time, almost long enough that Carol considered calling out to make sure that she was fine, and then she came back.
"She needed a diaper change," Michonne said. "And—I think she might be hungry?"
Carol shook her head.
"Shouldn't be," she said. "But if she is—there's milk in the fridge for her."
Michonne ignored the comment about the milk entirely. She walked over to the chair in the sitting area and rearranged it so that it was closer to where Carol was sitting on the couch. She sat down on the edge of it, leaned forward, and stared at Carol until Carol had no choice but to look at her.
"You don't want her?" Michonne asked.
I do want her. That isn't it at all.
Carol shook her head gently at Michonne.
"I'm not good for her," Carol said. "I can't even—look at her. Just hearing her?"
She didn't finish. She didn't have to. Michonne was already nodding her head.
"Makes everything in your body hurt," Michonne said. "Makes you want to—stab your own ear drums not to hear it anymore."
Carol neither confirmed nor denied that Michonne was right, but she knew that she didn't have to. A very faint flash of a smile played on Michonne's lips before it faded and she licked them.
"Beth told me that—we have word for widows and orphans, but it seems like we should have a word for mothers who've lost their children," Michonne said. "We still don't have a word for it." Carol didn't respond. "When I found the formula? For Judith? I didn't even know who it was for. All I knew was that there was a baby who needed milk. I didn't want to trust people. I didn't want to be around them. But I couldn't let that baby starve. So I took the formula to her. For a while? I couldn't breathe every time I heard her cry. I'd worked so hard to—shut it all down. But when she cried? I realized I still had no control. Every time she cried, I heard them crying."
"You're wonderful with Judith," Carol said. "She loves you."
Michonne nodded.
"And she loves you," Michonne said. "You were—you still are—like the first mother she ever got the chance to know."
"It's different now," Carol said.
Michonne hummed.
"It was different for me too," Michonne confirmed. "But then—my girls? They were sweet. Beautiful. Perfect angels."
Carol smiled a little to herself. It had taken a while for Michonne to open up to her about her loss. It had taken a while for Carol to open up to Michonne, too. She might not have told her every detail—because many of those she simply didn't want to share—but Michonne understood that she'd suffered a great deal of loss since the world had become what it was.
But Michonne could finally talk about her daughters without drawing back into the dark place that she used to go to—a place she told Carol about—and without even having a hint of that darkness come over her. Carol credited a good bit of it to the constant presence of Judith in Michonne's life now and the role that the woman had seemed to take on with her.
"I'm sure they were," Carol offered gently. Michonne nodded again.
"But I thought that—by not caring for Judith? By not—allowing myself to get close to anyone else? To any children? I wasn't doing a service to their memory. I wasn't doing anything for them. They're—they're not coming back. And I have to accept that. But me loving Judith? It isn't hurting them." Michonne said.
"I understand that," Carol confirmed. "I do. I really, really do. But—it feels like...it's so much more than that."
Michonne raised her eyebrows at Carol.
"Is it something you want to talk about?" Michonne asked.
Carol shook her head gently.
"Not really," she admitted. "I know what it would sound like if I did. And—I promise that I'm not crazy. Or—at least I don't think I am."
Michonne laughed quietly.
"We're all crazy," Michonne said. "At this point it's just sorting out the dangerous crazy from the run-of-the-mill everyday crazy."
Carol forced a smile, but she didn't think it was too convincing. It was obvious, when Michonne spoke next, that she was right. She hadn't convinced the woman at all.
"You're not crazy," Michonne said. "But—I won't presume to say that I know what you're going through. When I lost my girls? I had something to blame it on. I could blame it on the world. I could blame it on the situation. I could blame it on the Walkers. And—it still drove me crazy. It still wakes me up at night. So I won't presume to say that I know what you're going through. But—I'll tell you that you're not crazy. And—I'll tell you that...if you want to? You have a lot to offer a baby. I saw you with Maison."
"You know what happened," Carol said.
Michonne nodded.
"And back in the day we called it—crib death. We called it—SIDS," Michonne said. "And it happened, and it was horrible even then. But I knew mothers that got through it, somehow. And some of them went on to have another child. Some didn't. They all had something in common, though."
Carol raised her eyebrows, this time, in question at Michonne and she hummed to confirm that she wanted the rest of the information that MIchonne may or may not be planning to share with her.
"It was horrible, but they got through it," Michonne said. "And—it wasn't their fault."
Carol forced herself to swallow a few times in rapid succession. More than thinking about how she felt about it, it was the sound in Michonne's voice that got to her. It was the instant, although unspoken, confirmation that Michonne knew exactly how Carol was feeling about her part in the loss of every child she felt she'd touched.
I wish someone could tell my heart that.
But Carol couldn't find any words. Michonne stood up, stretched herself, and then she put the chair back where she'd found it. She walked over and rested a hand on Carol's shoulder.
"She's a beautiful baby," Michonne said. "Have you seen her?" Carol shook her head and Michonne hummed. "You should. When you're ready. "The first time I held Judith? I thought my...my chest would...explode. But it didn't. And then? All of a sudden? It was the best feeling that I'd felt in a long time." Michonne hummed again and Carol heard the soft release of breath, the sound of a silent laugh. "She let me cry with her," Michonne said. "And she still does. Sometimes. When I need it."
"You still need it," Carol said, not even sure herself if she meant it to be a question or a statement.
"Always will, I think," Michonne said. "I'll find Daryl and send him back here. If she's not hungry now, she will be soon."
Carol brought her hand up and rested it over Michonne's. Michonne twined their fingers together and squeezed Carol's in response.
"Take your time," Michonne said. "There's plenty of it."
Michonne moved her hand and didn't wait for Carol to speak—not that Carol knew what she might say. Michonne didn't need her to say anything anyway. She picked up her katana, put it back on her back, and walked straight to the door and out of it without looking back. Carol watched her through the window as she slipped down the porch steps and strolled off, presumably in search of Daryl who, having taken on the responsibility of the little one, had slipped away too long from his post.
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AN: Please note that I write Michonne's back story as the comic version where she lost her daughters. I'm not unaware that the show made her loss a little boy. I simply prefer the comic version of things because that's the version that I first related to Michonne, back when I first fell in love with her character. If you read my other stories, you won't find this surprising at all. If you don't/haven't, however, I felt I should explain. For me, Michonne had daughters.