Chapter Three: A Tomb for Toby
Molly's stomach twisted into knots. Her mother's face sneered at her from the living room.
"You and the boy think you can just abandon me here? I won't let him take you. I won't let him run off with any more of my babies." Momma sat up more fully, crimson rising high on her cheeks. "Bring me a drink."
Anger bubbled up in Molly's chest. Words like fire poured out, a barrage she'd never dared before. "You don't have any more." She stomped down the hallway, courage building. "We are not your babies. We have never been your babies. I will fight you. When he comes back to get me, you won't be able to keep me in this hell."
John poked his head out at her. His eyes were wide, mouth gaping. She ignored him and stepped up the hall, glaring down her mother as she neared the doorway.
"We've got school, and you've got a mess to clean up. There's glass all over the kitchen. I'm not staying home to take care of you today, Momma. Time to grow up." She stood over Momma, hands on her hips.
Momma lunged up at her, teeth bared and nostrils flaring. Her fingers tightened around Molly's wrists, dragging her closer. Fear and pride left a hot and cold sensation over her skin, but she didn't break eye contact. Without warning the grip on her wrists released. Momma stepped back, eyes glinting like flint at Molly.
"You think you can talk that way to your momma?" Momma let out a cutting laugh, marching across the living room to stand in the kitchen. "Your daddy ain't coming back for you. You wouldn't be so brave if you knew the truth. He never intended to take you with him. He's running out of state. You two are already screwed up. Ain't no helping you."
Molly took a deep breath, watching the color drain from John's face. "He said he'd come back."
"What would you have done if he'd said otherwise, dear? Dragged him back in? Kept him from leaving? He's left you behind." Momma smirked at her, leaning back onto the counter. "Go on to school now. Good luck on your exams."
"Molly, we have to go. Come on. He'll probably get us from school." John's voice was small as he pushed Molly out the door. "Don't worry. She's just trying to get us riled up."
Down the hallway they could hear the desperate slamming of cabinets. Momma's screams about her broken bottles followed them all the way to the stairwell.
Despite John's reassurance, both were too afraid to speak about their mother's claims their entire walk to school. Molly avoided her friends, opting instead to hurry straight to her first class. Of course, on the one day she wanted to avoid him, Sherlock caught her in the hall. He usually didn't bother talking to her at school, but last night must have prompted his pity. She held back the urge to push him away, tears threatening to spill. She didn't want to be confronted with his questions or his attempts at sympathy.
She was shocked when he didn't say anything to her, just pulled her into a loose hug, head tilted down, eyes questioning. He kept his arm on her shoulders the entire walk to their classroom. He took the seat directly behind hers.
She forced herself to sit still and ignore the persistent prodding on her arm from behind as Sherlock tried to get her attention. She could tell the curiosity was killing him. The knot in her throat silenced her while her ears listened intently for the buzz of the intercom. She knew, any second, they'd call her and John's name and she'd find Daddy and Toby in the office. He'd explain everything, and all of Molly's fears would be proven to be ridiculously unfounded.
Sherlock's attempts to gain her attention slowly fell away as the teacher began explaining the exams, passing thick booklets down the rows of desks. She glanced at the front page, the words blurring together and sliding away as her eyes refused to focus on the letters. She signed her name in shaking, sloping letters, grimacing at her sloppy work.
She sat through half the class, holding back tears and straining her ears, without answering more than ten questions. Endless hours of study went to waste as she glared numbly at the black and white page.
Finally, she heard the static of the intercom. A sharp female voice called out over the heads of the students "Molly and John Hooper to the office please. We need Molly and John Hooper to the office. Please bring your bags."
She trembled as she gathered her supplies and closed up her test. The teacher mouthed a "we'll discuss it later," as she scrambled into the hallway. Just as she turned to close the heavy door behind her, she caught sight of Sherlock leaning back in his chair with his booklet closed, eyebrows knit together as he watched her leave. It struck her that this might be the last time she saw him, and she fought back the urge to mouth a goodbye.
She'd be back tomorrow, probably. She'd just come from a different home. Somewhere happier.
The click of the door echoed through the silent hallway. She and John were coming from different ends of the school, so she didn't meet him until he stood, pale faced, in front of the office door.
His eyes were fixed unblinking on their mother, sitting at the principal's desk, dabbing at her eyes with a small napkin. Momma snorted and sniffled in tears, and Molly felt her insides turn to ice. Daddy hadn't come. Was Momma going to try to take them away before he could get them? Had he come back home and she wanted to rub their noses in it?
"Come in children. We need to discuss some news." An officer Molly hadn't noticed before spoke from beside Principal Wanda. Molly couldn't hold his gaze. The sympathetic shine to his features made her heartbeat speed.
"Well, get on with it then. What's happened?" John's voice was choked, and he hadn't looked away from Momma.
"There's been an accident. We regret to inform you that Stephan and Toby Hooper were identified this morning in the remains of wreckage from a car crash."
The ice inside Molly snapped, shattering her nerves like glass. Her head swung wildly in denial, her hands letting go of her backpack with a thud. She saw nothing besides her mother sitting in the small office chair, muffling tiny sniffles under a wadded napkin. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She just stood there, gaping like a fish. It was John who said what she struggled to get out.
"You've got to have made a mistake. Dad was on his way to come get us. I mean, you've probably just got the wrong guy." His voice was deceptively level, hitching only when he mentioned his father.
Molly imagined him with his hands running down his jeans, eyes shining with tears. She should turn to comfort him, to say something to him, but her feet were glued to the ground and her vision narrowed to her mother's weeping.
"I'm sorry. He's been positively identified." Principal Wanda moved to put a comforting hand on Molly's shoulder, but she took a wooden step back.
Somehow, the officer left and someone explained that they would be excused from the exams. Molly vaguely heard someone mention explaining to their teachers, her mind slogging through the drifting fog of words to catch the bits that may have meaning. Principal Wanda offered to lend a hand if they needed, and Molly almost fell from the precipice of trauma.
Their mother took them home. The house still smelled strongly of vodka. Glass was scattered through the kitchen and dining room. Molly noticed several new additions to the shards. No doubt they were the remnants of their final drinking cups. She imagined her mother's frustration as she'd searched the cabinets, saw the smashing of every offending glass clearly in her mind's eye. She was still imagining this scenario when John nudged her, alerting her to a question she'd missed.
"You're going to pick up all your bags and put all your stuff away. And don't you keep a single thing of your Daddy's in this place." Molly said nothing, noting the thin white line around Momma's lips and the raw redness under her nose.
She and John emptied all the bags, turning over Daddy's valuables and Toby's toys in their hands with glossy eyes. Neither dared cry. Neither dared speak of the loss. Mother watched them from the couch, knees held firmly in her arms, eyes marred by red lines and black bags.
She and John spent the rest of the afternoon in their room, staring at the walls and avoiding the question still hanging in the air. When she could stand it no longer, she spoke. "Do you really think he was coming to get us?"
"Of course he was." John frowned, crumbling a paper sitting on his desk.
"Is that a good thing?" Neither of them looked at Toby's bed. The thin Cars blanket glared at them cruelly, Steve McQueen's grin a mockery.
"How the hell am I supposed to answer that, Molly?" He leapt to his feet and headed towards the window. He paced until 3 o'clock, when Mary would be getting home from school.
Then, John left her in her room alone.
She could hear his crying through the window, the sound drowning out the music box and the soft comfort of Mary's voice. Try as she might, she could not make herself cry or mourn. Her heart had settled into numbness and would not budge. Guilt simmered below the shock, waiting to attack the moment her emotions returned to working order.
The next morning she was cleaning the glass fragments, wrinkling her nose at the sticky floor, when her mother handed her the phone.
"I need you to set it up. Just talk to the preacher, tell him what we need."
Molly stared dumbly at Momma, processing the request through the sludge that had lodged itself in her brain. She handed back the phone.
"No. Call him yourself." Molly ignored the phone being pushed into her hand, the two of them silently struggling to force the call on the other.
"It's just a phone call, Molly. Just do it!" Momma shrieked, face red as she shoved her daughter back.
Molly pushed back, forcing Momma down. The phone clattered across the floor and Momma's face paled.
"I said no." Her voice and hands trembled, but Momma didn't speak. She walked away with the rag still wet and soapy on the kitchen floor. Momma made the funeral plans herself, and two days later, the family dressed in their finest and attended.
There was no wake. There was no viewing, no final goodbye.
It seemed the next time Molly looked out to the world from her mind she was faced with a droning preacher and sallow-faced mourners. She forced herself to look to the simple caskets, one tiny and one large. The sight sat like a stone in her stomach, knotting up her throat until she thought she might vomit into the walkway. Flowers crowded the front. Classic funeral bouquets: lilies, obligatory heart wreath, hydrangeas. The floral smell sent another wave of nausea through her, followed by a flash of heat over her skin. She may never pick flowers again.
Her mother's shrill cries pierced through the haze of shock that had enveloped her for days. Whatever the preacher said was drowned out by the unending lamentations.
"Oh, Lord Mercy, bring back my boy! Bring back my boy!" Momma's whole body trembled in the pew in front of Molly, thin shoulders quaking against the smooth wood. "What are we gonna do? My baby, My Toby! He's gone to the Lord, have mercy!"
Molly watched the huddle of women crouched around her mother with overly sympathetic gazes and sweeping comforting touches. One older woman smoothed down her mother's hair. As another loud sob wracked Momma's body, Molly recognized the red-faced, quivering effects of withdrawal, disguised beneath the layers of grief. It was all too much. Molly glanced to John to see what he thought of the whole show.
He sat beside the other men of the family, face ashen and eyes bleary. The men were staring at Momma's show with open disgust. Molly couldn't bring herself to be embarrassed. The other Hooper family members hadn't been around for years, and she doubted they'd start checking in now. Whatever action or inaction they took would remain inconsequential.
She was surprised to see Sherlock sitting beside John, face solemn and eyes downcast. He passed one incredulous glance at Momma when the woman let out a particularly boisterous cry, but otherwise showed no hint of judgment.
As Amazing Grace warbled through church speakers, her breathing came in ragged pulls. She closed her eyes and, for the first time since the news, remembered the last time she saw Toby. His wide eyes burned in her memory, his faint cries echoing around the walls of her skull.
She stumbled numbly to her feet, ignoring the whispered "Oh dear," and "It'll be ok, sweetie" that followed her hasty retreat from the too-small church and the too-loud woman. The door closed on the whispers behind her.
She forced calming breaths through her nose as she stepped outside, until she stopped gasping. Heat built in her cheeks and her hands were clammy, but she walked by the few cars with even steps. She passed wrought iron gates, small and speared at the top like in old movies. Gravestones, mostly simple and aged, rose from the ground in crumbling memorials. Names were carved against weathered stone. She read them all, lingering on the final years pecked on granite.
She had just turned down the third row when she saw Sherlock leaning on the gate, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes soft. She glanced around for John, but didn't find him lagging behind. Sherlock ambled towards her, eyebrows knit together in confusion.
"What are you doing out here?" He looked away from her, studying a tombstone she had stopped by.
She didn't answer.
"Are you ok?" His cheeks flushed, and he thinned his lips. "Clearly not. Sorry, stupid question."
"Not a stupid question. Most people don't know what to say to me." She fiddled with the ribbon on her dress and continued walking. "You're right. I'm not ok."
They continued walking through the cemetery, occasionally stopping so Sherlock could note unusual names or dates. They didn't speak until they approached the final row, a crumbling mess of weeds and stones with no names.
Sherlock took a deep breath, as if to steel himself. When he spoke, his voice was careful. "My real name is William. Billy for short." He fidgeted, but held eye contact with her.
"Um, okay?" She blinked at him, surprised at his outburst. "Why do you call yourself Sherlock then?"
His face eased, shoulders falling. "It's my middle name. I decided I needed a change, and Sherlock was just strange enough to fit."
Molly tilted her head up at him. "William Sherlock Holmes."
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. My mother was a sucker for middle names, it seems." He gave her a nervous smile, and she giggled despite herself.
"Why didn't you go with Scott? If you just wanted a new name, that one would have worked." His smile fell.
"Billy awkwardly tried to fit in with everybody, with no real success. I figured Sherlock was odd enough to suit an improbably odd boy." He draped an arm across her shoulders, leaning his forehead against the top of her head. "This may surprise you, but I'm rubbish at socializing."
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes against the wave of grief that washed over her at his touch. "You can't be that bad. You've got John." Her voice shook and broke.
"I tried for you." The words were whispered against her hair, and she was certain she wasn't supposed to hear it. "Molly Hooper, why are you the only person on this earth that wants to be seen?"
Hot tears slid down her cheeks, her lips curling back in a strangled sob. His other arm circled her, and she cried into his stiff white shirt. He ran his fingers through her hair, but gave no comforting coos. He allowed her to empty her grief onto his chest without patronizing her with overused phrases.
They stood like that until a horrified screech sounded across the tombstones. Within seconds her mother was dragging Sherlock away by the forearm, her face red and her eyes narrowed into slits.
She returned for Molly, disgust painted in broad strokes over her running make-up. Molly knew the fingertips digging into her arm would leave bruises, but she bit back any pain.
"Have you no respect? This ain't no whorehouse now, this is a funeral! Keep your wiles to yourself! Your Daddy would've been ashamed of you, traipsing around like a harlot."
The barrage continued in hissed insults all the way to the fold-out chairs circling the newly dug holes. Sherlock was nowhere to be found as the coffins were lowered. Molly wiped her eyes, bidding farewell to the little blond boy who had brightened her days, and to the father who'd offered her a chance of escape.
They returned home in the evening and Molly locked herself in her room. John disappeared immediately to Mary's, without even bothering to come inside.
She pulled her thin covers over her head and rolled onto her side, burying her face into her pillow and falling slowly into warped dreams of twisting metal and squealing tires and blond boys crying in the backseat. She slept for an hour before she was startled awake by a knock on her window. She sat up quickly, expecting to see John outside. Sherlock crouched there instead, cigarette between his lips and hands pointing expectantly at the window.
She opened it, listening carefully for her mother's footsteps. Without alcohol to keep her restrained, her mother's anger was more dangerous than usual. She managed to push it up halfway before he climbed through, cigarette held on the other side of the glass.
She wiped at the dried make up at her eyes. "John's not here. He's at Mary's."
"Yes, well, he wasn't happy when I got caught with you in the cemetery." Sherlock slumped back against the wall, watching the orange burn further up his cigarette. He was still wearing the white shirt and black slacks from the funeral, but his hair was wild and his shirt was untucked.
"If you're not here for John, what are you doing here?" She curled her knees under her chin. His shoulders twitched into a shrug, his eyes sliding coolly over to her.
"How are you doing?" His gaze was glued to her mouth. She started to speak before he held up his free hand. "Don't say you're good now, because we both know that's not true."
She thought for a minute, burying her face into her arms. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Of course. That's fine." They sat in silence, Sherlock stretching his legs out on her bed.
She thought she might fall asleep again, when Sherlock cleared his throat.
"I mentioned before I'm not very good at socializing."
Molly nodded. The bed shifted as Sherlock moved towards her, nudging her over until he sat beside her, their arms pressed together in the small space.
"What are you doing?" The bed was too small for her to move away without falling.
"I'm sorry if I messed up earlier." His jaw twitched, his face kept forward. "I didn't think of how your mother would react."
"It's fine. She's just emotional." Molly placed a hand against his, her heart thumping against her chest. "Thank you for sharing your real name with me." He looked at her with surprise. She offered a hesitant smile.
"I would wager she's difficult to handle even when she's not been away from the drink." He spoke quickly, then winced.
She dropped her hand from his, hiding her face again. "Did John tell you?"
"No, of course not. I managed to gather as much from the amount of alcohol in your cupboards and your mother's gait and slurring. Highly unlikely she's got a speech impediment and a penchant for spiked orange juice." He stopped, abruptly. "Oh God, I'm doing it again." He ran his hand over his face and took a deep breath.
"It's fine. I mean, I guess it was obvious."
"No." His tone was sharp. His head thunked against the wall, and Molly flinched at the noise. Luckily, no shuffling footsteps echoed down the hallway.
"What do you mean no?" He hadn't just guessed. She hadn't thought he'd been by enough to know with such certainty how her mother was.
"This is just what I do. I see everything. Most people hate it." He gave her a sideways glance, lips thinned. He shook his head. "That's not why I'm here. I didn't show up to talk about me."
"Why did you show up?" She gave in to her exhaustion and rested her head against his shoulder. He stiffened for a moment, but didn't move away.
"I knew John would run to Mary's and that your mother would be less than supportive. That was clear from the funeral. I assumed you would need company and reassurance. Since you've not been back at school and none of your other friends know where you live, much less what has transpired in the last week, I knew that duty, if it was to fall on any one, would rest with me." He finished his longwinded explanation by shifting his arm around her and moving her head to his chest. "So, what do you need?"
"What?" She stifled a yawn, wiping away the wetness gathering at her eyes.
"What do you need me to do?" He said the words into her hair, fingertips running over the bruises on her arms.
"Talk to me about anything besides my family." She felt more than saw him smile.
"Did John ever tell you about my old dog?"
"Hm. I think he said you named it Redbeard." Her lids drooped. She could hear Sherlock's heart speeding in his chest. "What kind of dog is he?"
"An Irish Setter. Best friend a boy could have."
"Why Redbeard?" Molly smiled, imagining a younger Sherlock playing in a yard with a small puppy.
"I named him after a pirate. At the time, I was quite obsessed. I tend to be that way. I'm hooked the minute I take an interest." She closed her eyes, curling into his chest.
She fell asleep as he murmured facts about pirates and Barbarossa. She dreamed tales of stormy skies and handsome pirates with dark curls and blue eyes and a strange, quirked smile. She awoke alone, John's snores tearing through her sleepiness. She wondered if Sherlock had really come at all, or if she'd imagined the whole thing, until she caught sight of his cigarette stub on the window sill. She threw it away, noting that he'd managed to make the whole room smell of tobacco.
For two weeks, she avoided leaving the house. She didn't bother finding out what she'd missed at school or if anyone was asking where she'd gone. No one else showed up to check on them. She survived on bread and casseroles from Mrs. Morstan, and spent hours of her day in a timeless daze. Her mother hardly left her room, pajamas ragged and hair in greasy knots. She emerged only to steal a small plate of food or drink half of a glass of water.
Molly worried when her mother's room grew too quiet. She worried when she could hear her mother's smashing and screaming and moaning, growing less and less frequent as the days wore on.
The room had been silent for two days when she woke up to sounds from the kitchen. There were no soap operas or Bon Jovi, just the sound of someone clinking through the dishes.
She was surprised to come face to face with Momma, dressed impeccably in an old 80s style woman's suit. She looked younger than she had in years, with long hair twisted into a French knot and her make up done in natural tones. Her eyes were watery and her lips twitched, but she was clearly trying. Her hands were trembling as she put a plate into the cupboard.
"Where are you going?" Molly winced. The words came out like an accusation. Instead of exploding with the anger she'd expected, Molly's mother crumbled.
Perhaps they were the first real tears Molly had witnessed from her mother in years. She stepped forward, placing a hesitant hug around Momma's slender form. Her own tears fell, and the two of them wept for a shared loss for a few minutes before Momma stepped away.
"How do I look?" She wiped at the bit of mascara that had started to run and then smoothed down the skirt of her suit. "Do I look ready to work?"
"What are you doing Momma?" Molly shrunk away from the new woman, lip worrying between her teeth. "Are you ready for this?"
"Your Daddy wasn't lying. There ain't no money. Not a penny in the bank. We didn't even pay for the funeral." Momma looked down, rubbing the smudged mascara under her eyes. The tender moment disintegrated, her mother turning icy again.
"Oh." Molly closed her eyes against the panic washing over her skin. "No choices then."
"Afraid not, dear." Momma sniffled and looked away. "The family wasn't much help either."
Molly looked over Momma's navy blue pencil skirt and nude pumps, noting how she had used her one good pair of hose for the occasion. "You look wonderful, Momma." She forced a smile.
"Come on now, I'll be late." Momma walked out the door, her steps slightly unsteady.
The click of heels echoed for each step her mother took down the hall. When she was sure Momma wouldn't return, she threw away the Count Chocula cereal and all the little cars scattered around the house. Bit by bit, she put away the pain hiding inside toy-boxes and Cars comforters and baseball covered pajamas. By the time Molly was done all signs of Toby would be gone.