Disclaimer: It's not mine in any way, shape or form.

Chapter Summary: Mary Alice is a ghost that haunts them all. Post-ep for "Searching."

Coda: Season Seven

A story by Ryeloza

Sixteen: Searching

i.

Beth wonders sometimes why Mary Alice did it.

Hopelessness? Desperation? Fear? Anguish? Did the whole world shut her out so she had no place to turn? She always wanted to ask Paul, but never found the courage to be the one to make him face his own demons. She knows that he's haunted by his first wife—she could always see her lurking in the back of his eyes like a constant torture—and nothing she said or did could get rid of that pain.

Probably because she never said or did anything right.

Probably because that pain is what made Paul into a monster in the first place.

In the end, she supposes that the reason doesn't really matter because it's not the why of the act, but the act itself that destroys. The goodbyes that are never spoken and the love that goes unfulfilled and all the hundreds of little moments that will never get to be—that's where the pain really lies. Knowing why wouldn't make a difference one way or another; the person will still be gone. After months of living with Paul—of loving him even with that sorrow that stays with him always—Beth understands this now.

After all, no one is going to understand why she did it either, and it won't really matter.

It will be the act that truly haunts them all.

ii.

Susan misses Mary Alice.

It honestly feels like a secret that she's kept bottled up for years, but when she announces this to her friends at poker, their reactions play out exactly as they have in her imagination. Bree quietly draws into herself as though leaving the table without actually moving, and Lynette gets that mothering look on her face that is always just a tiny bit strained with Susan (like she grows weary of comforting her), and Gaby just kind of blinks for a moment and says, "Well, yeah. We all do."

In a very selfish moment, Susan's first thought is no you don't. Her anger flares like that more and more recently; it's so very tiring to be furious about what has happened to her that she spends most of her time not thinking about it, but it always lingers deep inside of her and comes out in moments like these—ones where the old Susan wouldn't have felt or thought or said anything unkind. She's glad this time it is only a thought. Out loud she says, "I know." It's a weak agreement—not that it matters; they've already moved on to something else.

What Susan can't say is that Mary Alice was the best friend she ever had, because you don't announce something like that to the group of women who have been there to hug you and hold you when you cry and find you a damn kidney when no one else in the world could. For goodness sakes, Bree is going to give Susan her kidney tomorrow, and she can't thank her by throwing out hurtful comments (even if Bree does look a little like she expects accolades of praise for this). It's just that Mary Alice was so effortless with her love. There was never judgment in her eyes, and as much as Susan loves Bree and Lynette and Gaby, they always, always look like they're judging her.

Susan has never known anyone who loved people as unconditionally as Mary Alice did.

She'll always remember that time after Karl left as some of the darkest days of her life, and even though Lynette brought alcohol, and Bree brought enough food to feed a dozen people, and Gaby—well, Gaby had wanted to take her out, but Susan had dissolved into tears, and they had ended up playing a very uncomfortable game of Scrabble or something equally ridiculous—Mary Alice had been the one to really sit and talk with her. Not saying that Karl was worthless or didn't deserve her or that she was better off without him, but listening as Susan told weepy stories of the times that Karl wasn't so bad. And then she said, "You'll get through this, Susan. You're stronger than you think."

Susan still says this to herself on her very worst days; somehow she never sounds as confident as Mary Alice did.

And there's no one to explain all this to, not even Mike because Mary Alice is a villain in his eyes, and her name has always been verboten between them. So most of the time it's just Susan, in her own head, missing her best friend.

iii.

Bree is glad when Gaby changes the subject away from Mary Alice, because Susan has that look of nostalgia in her eyes, and Bree does not want to spend the afternoon haunted by ghosts. Speaking of their old friend is a dangerous precipice for thinking of all the people she's lost, and the whole reason she's even donating her kidney to Susan is to escape from those very thoughts.

And to help my friend.

Of course.

The truth is that Mary Alice's death is one of those unpleasant realities that Bree so often stores away to never look at or think of again if she can help it. One day she had a friend who truly appreciated a good joke about water spots, and then next day she was gone. That's life. Bree understands this. After all, she's lost two husbands, and her relationship with her daughter is strained at best, and Keith is gone, and the only people who have actually remained constant in her life are these three women sitting at the table with her.

Why shouldn't her focus remain with them? It doesn't do to dwell on the people who have left her.

She doesn't want to think about Mary Alice.

No, she amends quietly, because not wanting to think about Mary Alice isn't enough. It still leaves room for those memories to slip in, soft and sweet until she'll want to do nothing but cry for hours over how much she's lost.

It has to be this way, or she'll go crazy.

She doesn't think about Mary Alice.

iv.

Gaby is about to go find another bottle of wine because the laughter in the room is a little more strained, the conversation a little less genuine since Susan brought up Mary Alice, and she thinks more alcohol will help, but the suggestion is only halfway out of her mouth when they're silenced by a sudden, insistent beeping sound.

For a moment, they all stare at Susan, who looks positively shocked. It is Gaby who breaks first, unable to take the tension. "Susan—That's your beeper."

Hands fumbling, Susan unhooks the beeper from her pants and glances at it with this anxious hope, like she can't quite believe what's happening. "I…This is it," she says breathlessly.

"What do you mean?" Bree sounds tense, and almost as shocked as Susan. "I've giving you my kidney tomorrow—That—That should be for someone else."

Susan shrugs, not unkindly, but just sort of dazed, standing and grabbing her purse. "I have to go. I…Wish me luck?"

Gaby gives Susan a tight hug, warily eyeing Bree, who doesn't seem to be taking this news with much aplomb. That's why when Bree suddenly stands and announces, "I'll drive you there," Gaby can't help but think it may be a bad idea.

"Really?" asks Susan. She shakes her head distractedly. "Yeah, okay. Thanks."

And bad idea or not, seconds later, they're gone, leaving Gaby and Lynette alone in the stunned aftermath. Gaby isn't quite sure what to say. She can see her own questions—the why and how and who—reflected in Lynette's own eyes, but neither of them are particularly inclined to actually ask them. Instead, Lynette asks, "Do you want some help cleaning up?"

They work in silence, which is kind of the great thing about Lynette—talking isn't always necessary. It's very rare that Gaby doesn't feel the need to fill the room with chatter and laughter in order to cover any lapse of quietness; usually it's uncomfortable, like there's a meanness in the lulls in conversation; something waiting to remind Gaby of all the things she isn't saying. But with Lynette, it's different—just easy; the same way it is with Carlos. There's no expectation for her to be funny or charming or intriguing, and the silence doesn't mean she's vapid.

The silence isn't filled with all of the things that they aren't saying to one another.

It's why she was the one to speak first after Susan's little proclamation earlier. She didn't want to be the one who didn't agree first, even though she knows deep down that she really doesn't miss Mary Alice that much to begin with. It's a secret that she keeps from the others because she doesn't think they'd understand, but the truth is that she only knew Mary Alice for about two years, and they were as different as night and day in most ways. Mary Alice was too perfect—too genuine and too good and too loving and too much of everything that Gaby had never been in her life. It was only every so often, when Mary Alice would get this strange, naked look of longing—almost like jealousy—that Gaby would stare at her and think we're not that different. We're both searching for…something.

Gaby is pretty sure she's found whatever it was that she needed back then. Acceptance and love and forgiveness and hope. But whatever it was that Mary Alice needed so desperately, apparently she was unable to ever find it.

Sometimes Gaby wishes she had just opened up and asked her what was missing. Maybe things would have turned out different. Maybe there wouldn't be this unspoken regret now.

But there's nothing she can do to go back in time; nothing she can do but occasionally wonder.

Mostly, it's just a reminder—that's why with most people she hates the silence.

v.

Lynette is just passing Susan's house when Paul tears out the door. He looks like a mad man, disheveled and frazzled and clearly upset about something, but just as he reaches his car, he sees her, and for a moment the world stands still between them. He's staring at her like a man who has been starved for affection for much too long; there are tears on his cheeks and a pain in his eyes that remind Lynette of the man she used to know. The man who had doubled over in grief when he found out his wife had killed herself; the man who had cried without abandon in front of the entire neighborhood; the man who had honestly looked like he'd never be able to go on without Mary Alice. It's like the years dissolve in front of her—no time has passed—and this is just Paul Young, Mary Alice's kind of awkward but sweet husband.

It's on the tip of her tongue to ask what's wrong, but Paul beats her to the punch, his voice coming out tired and broken like a small child's. The sound of it hurts her heart.

"Why do I destroy everyone I love?" And then, before Lynette can do more than think I don't know, he says, "Beth shot herself. She's—"

Lynette doesn't want to hear the word any more than Paul seems to want to say it. He rubs his eyes ferociously, as though trying to block out the tears forever, and then looks at her imploringly. "I know you hate me, but can you just pretend for one minute that you don't?"

She wants to ask why me? Is it just because she's there? Just because Paul has finally reached his breaking point? Just because she stopped for a moment and looked at him like a human being?

He is a human being.

"Mary Alice loved you," she says because she doesn't know what to say about Beth except that it's heartbreakingly tragic and horribly cruel.

Paul lurches lecherously like he's torn between standing where he is and coming toward her. Thankfully, he can't seem to actually move. "I did it for her—I was just so angry, and I'd lost her forever…She didn't even care what she did…But everyone acts like I'm the monster…"

Lynette's heart beats so hard and fast that she can hear it in her head. Is he confessing—He can't be confessing…

"You said you loved her—"

"I did love Mary Alice," she says, but her voice sounds far away like she isn't really there anymore. It's like last year all over again, being trapped with Eddie and the fear was everything. Once, years ago, she remembers Tom talking to her about saints, confessing that sometimes he still prayed to Saint Anthony because, teasing her, "Sometimes you make me lose my mind." But that conversation always stayed with her because sometimes she looks at Tom when things are at their worst and his eyes are shut, and she knows that he's praying for faith or strength or maybe both, and it's a comfort, like someone really will watch out for them. And maybe—probably—it's silly, but ever since Mary Alice died, Lynette has always prayed to her inwardly whenever something terrible happens, because she truly thinks that if there are saints out there looking down on them, then certainly her friend must be. Some part of her believes that it was Mary Alice who got her safely through last year, because when the fear was blinding and all she could do was pray, please, please, please let my baby be safe, she knows that it was Mary Alice who was listening.

She's never told anyone that—not even Tom.

But Paul is looking at her with this stark need in his eyes that she almost, maybe understands, and seeing him that way, it's hard not to feel bad for him. She's always had this horrible need to rescue the desolate because so often she's been that way herself. Paul is reaching the end of his rope, just like Eddie was, and for a moment, she thinks of how angry Tom would be if he knew she was in this situation again. But she also thinks that maybe Paul, like Eddie, just needs some kind of faith.

It's impossible to walk away.

"I have to believe she's still with us," she says, and Paul kind of looks at her in this surprised way, like she's the last person he'd expect to have faith in anything. But you have to believe in something, she thinks, or you just get lost forever. "I don't think she stopped loving us just because she died."

Paul is crying again, harder now, and shaking his head. "I think she stopped loving us the day she chose to kill herself. If she really loved me…If she really loved me, she would never have left."

Lynette doesn't know what to say to that because it's impossible to know why Mary Alice killed herself or what she was thinking or feeling, and even if she doesn't agree with Paul, she can't make him believe otherwise. The one thing she slowly realizes, though, is that for the first time since Paul returned, she understands him, she pities him, and she knows that he's lost—that probably he has been since Mary Alice died.

"I hate it here," says Paul softly. "I don't know…" He shrugs. "I don't know."

They stare at one another a moment longer—Paul searching her face for something that Lynette doesn't know how to give to him. She shuts her eyes against it, thinking silently, God, Mary Alice, what did you do? and then Paul says, "You know, I don't think you and I are really that different. You can't let her go either."

Maybe she can't. But it's not the same.

She doesn't say this. It wouldn't make a difference anyway, although as Paul stares at her, she thinks that maybe he knows.

He doesn't say anything, though. He just gets in his car, and a moment later, he's gone.