Chapter 4: The long and winding road
It's raining in British Columbia. Heavily.
This makes it difficult for a driver to read the names on the street signs. John slows down at each intersection. No one is following him, and he takes that as a positive sign. Maybe his day won't be as bad as he thinks.
It could even be fun, nice. Snorting, John doesn't allow delusions to take a firm hold on him. Nice. Right. This is so far from nice it's about to come around the other side and bite nice in the ass.
With a jolt, John recognises the street name and turns left, as he was instructed to do.
He should have refused, been enraged by her call, by the intrusion in his life. In truth, he had been guilt-ridden, so deeply ashamed and impossibly cowed when her strong voice reached his ear. At first, he was taken aback, wondering why she was calling, why she pushed further this year, when he had made it clear to everyone that he had no wish to see them or to be included in their plans. He wanted a quiet life, far away from people and potentially soul-destroying situations.
She had gotten his number easily, she taunted. She was angry, told him he was a selfish bastard, that he had no right to act as he did. This was an important day, she said, get out of that self-pitying slump you've been in for the last ten years and be who you were.
"I don't know you," she said, venom in her voice, "but I know everyone else has come at least once. You're the only one hiding!"
You don't understand, he said coldly, before slamming the phone down. She called, again. Again. Again. For days, the phone rang every few hours. Rings that broke the silence in the house. Rings that cut into John, forced him to sit at the kitchen table and stare at the phone until it stopped its infernal racket.
Finally, on the seventh day, he picked up the receiver and said yes. Now here he is, on a street far from his own. Large houses, perfectly kept lawns, window boxes, shutters: suburbia at its best.
He does not need to check the numbers on the mailboxes, though he does. The house is the last one on the street, a bit removed, encircled by massive trees. There are cars filling the semi-circular driveway. The street is a dead-end, it's the only reason John does not drive on, but turns into the driveway
"Pull it together, John." He whispers the new motto to himself before turning off the engine. The plick-plick-plick of the rain on the car is the only distraction he finds, and he listens to it.
The day mirrors John's state so perfectly. Heavy skies, sombre atmosphere, rain. This is me, he thinks, as the front door of the big white house opens. This is me: an undesired storm on a special day.
He sees Jeanie, in the door. Recognises her though she, like him, like them all, has aged. Her hand is raised in greeting. She is smiling.
Breathing deeply, he puts on his John-Sheppard-charming-man mask and steps out of the car. As he stands, he feels the crystal dig into his flesh through the material of his pocket. An upsetting reminder.
The rain is cold on his skin, but he does not hurry to the protection of the porch. He would rather stand in the rain than walk in that house, but at this point, changing his mind is no longer an option.
O-O-O-O-O
It seemed strange for the sun to be high in the sky, for a gentle breeze to carry the mingled scents of the earth, the flowers and the ocean to them. It was almost indecent for the Mainland to be so beautiful.
John felt the sky should have been heavy with black clouds and rumbling thunder, the wind biting and sharp. For this day to be so comfortable, so utterly pleasant, felt like betrayal.
He stood closest to the water, on the far left of the cemetery. Straight, orderly rows of graves stretched before him, all marked by personal items the dead had cherished, or the survivor thought they had cherished. Hands on hips he surveyed the horizon, eyes high above the ground, ignoring the mounds that covered the ground. Halling would recite his prayers soon, there would be tea and tears, and then they would return to the city and John would put all of those that were gone behind him.
He wished it were so easy.
His gaze flitted over his people. Levin, Miller and Williams were standing by different graves. John supposed those were people they had been closer to: friends, teammates. Latour and Miko were assisting Halling in his preparation, wiping a stray tear when they stopped moving for too long. Carson was walking along the rows, stopping here and there, crouching, reaching out to stroke the earth. He too, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Rodney stood at the opposite end of the graveyard, starring straight ahead.
John frowned. Something glinted in McKay's hand. The crystal. He had taken the crystal here and was toying with it. John eyed the scientist and noticed his dishevelled appearance. All the others had taken care to dress in clean, pressed clothes, but Rodney looked like a man who had just returned from a three-day bender.
The surge of irrational anger was quickly quelled. Everyone had a certain way to deal with loss; if Rodney wanted to give up on hygiene and personal appearance for a while, that was his prerogative. John would only step in if it endangered anyone, but he believed Carson would comment long before John was forced to: health concerns and all that were the doctor's main area of control, after all.
Eyes following thought, John's gaze settled on Carson who was walking slowly toward him. He watched him approach, unmoving. Waiting.
"It's a beautiful day," Carson remarked. "Glad we could send them off under the sun like this."
John snorted.
Carson turned to look at him. "Small comforts are important, John."
"I know." He did not care. There was no comfort to be had anymore. Only the bitterness of failure, the hopelessness of loss.
They stood silently for a few minutes. John watched Rodney walk away from the gravesite. He seemed to be talking to himself and that almost made John smile. It was familiar.
"I'm worried about him," Carson said, having followed Rodney's path.
"He's fine. It was a big shock to everyone."
"From two-hundred and seventy-nine to eight. Seven with a natural gene, one without."
John frowned. "I guess we were lucky," he said, and had to restrain the laughter that rose.
"Good Rodney was in the Chair room, isn't it? Only surviving artificial gene carrier. Don't know what we'd do without him, if there was another lockdown." Carson's tone was neutral, his words carefully pronounced.
John turned to Carson. "You might want to think twice about what you're implying, Doctor."
"Stating facts, Colonel."
John refrained from answering, hearing the bite in Carson's tone. John deserved it, he had bitten first, but Carson voicing the thoughts that John tried so hard to push away was another checkmark in the unsettling column.
Carson eventually sighed and moved away, returning to his visits of the graves.
The questions he had raised stayed with John and they displeased him greatly. He was unable to ignore them now that another had expressed the thoughts he considered paranoid.
Rodney had not returned from his walk when the celebration of the souls ended. John found him sitting under a tree, talking to himself and stroking the crystal.
TBC...